


Melancholy Madness of Poetry Without the Inspiration

by Allekha



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Happy Ending, Loneliness, M/M, Pre-Canon, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-07-23 14:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16160366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allekha/pseuds/Allekha
Summary: Yakov didn't expect that some critique of one of Victor's new programs for the next season, weaker than his usual standard, would lead to a late-night conversation about creative block and other things; he had no idea that Victor was struggling with his love for skating or that he was feeling lost about his future.He didn't expect the turn that his attempt to help Victor would take, either, to something far beyond advice and Victor's penchant for hugs.





	1. Chapter 1

Most years, Victor would be beating down Yakov's door with his new programs right after Worlds, or right before Worlds, or sometimes even in December, but this year he had restrained himself to early May. The ice was less crowded than usual, everyone scattering to vacations and ice shows – Victor himself had only come back to Russia from a Japanese show a few days before. A couple weeks from now, he would be in Moscow. He was doing fewer shows than usual this year, but that was still plenty of time out of St. Petersburg.

"Let me show you the free program first. I've been working on it more," said Victor while he tried to get the sound system to co-operate. It had been finicky this week; Yakov had complained, and it seemed he would have to complain again in order to get someone to actually fix it.

Despite the many, many programs he had seen over his decades of being involved in skating, Yakov found himself curious as Victor skated out to the center of the ice and waited for Yakov to start the music. Victor – and Georgi, who had already shown Yakov his lovely, romantic programs obviously modeled after his relationship with his girlfriend – always had something interesting up his sleeve. He had signature moves, sure, but he didn't use them in everything, and he skipped from music genre to genre every year. The depths of Victor's ability to create something fresh and new seemed endless.

Yakov adjusted Victor's phone in his hand – his students always wanted recordings nowadays, so they could review them later and also to post snippets for their fans – and hit the play button.

The music started out slow and sad, and so did Victor, his expression distant and pitiful, but as the program continued, both Victor and the music became more energetic and triumphant. The song was operatic and dramatic. Italian? Yakov had never been good at opera voices, but he was pretty sure it wasn't French, and it was too soft to be German.

Victor marked the jumps, but his intended layout was obviously going to be of his usual difficulty. What was it going to be this year – more quads? An axel-loop combination again? Even now, Yakov sometimes marveled at what he was capable of. And it wasn't just the jumps. He had the expressions, and the ability to land the quads and also do something other than wave his arms around while building up speed for the next. Each move, sometimes even the crossovers that helped him build speed, was matched to the music, the program building from that depressing beginning to the happy ending. Yakov didn't need to understand the lyrics to see what he was going for. Loneliness and depression to joy and fulfillment.

"What do you think?" Victor asked afterward, panting by the boards.

"It was good. Very dramatic. Did you commission the music, too?"

"Yep!" He accepted the water bottle that Yakov handed him. "Was it up to my usual standards?" There was something strange in his eyes that Yakov couldn't quite read. He couldn't be unsure of himself.

"Of course it was." And before Yakov could understand what he was seeing, the look was gone. Maybe Victor was just tired. Japan was many time zones away. "I want to make some adjustments to the layout. The spins looked good and the timing of them was perfect. The choreo sequence needs a bit more expressiveness, and I want to see more knee bend. But for a first run-through, it was good."

Victor smiled and drank his water.

The short program was, indeed, messier, clearly more of a work-in-progress. Unusually for him, it was on a similar theme as his free program, though the energy went in reverse. Victor started it with a spin, then went right into an almost frantic step sequence before marking his axel, followed by his combination. The rest of the program wound down, and even though he actually did a jump at the end, just a single, it felt like it lacked energy, somehow, though the jump was textbook.

Victor gave him a hopeful look as he skated back over. Yakov looked at him, then at the phone he still held, and he replayed the video. After it was finished, he replayed it again, trying to decide how he felt about it.

When he looked up, the expression had fallen off of Victor's face. "You don't like it."

"I don't dislike it," said Yakov, hedging, because he didn't, exactly. "It's not your best work. I understand you were trying to theme both the programs together, which is fine. But the music is lacking something. And the ending – it feels like it just ends. And the step sequence is... you should let me re-do the step sequence."

"You don't like it," Victor surmised, taking his phone back. He started the video again himself. Yakov watched him watch it, as in the background another skater started to run through her own program. When the video was over, Victor frowned. "It's boring."

"I wouldn't say boring." It was difficult for _Victor_ to be boring. "But nothing about it particularly stands out."

"That's a long way of saying it's boring." Victor was replaying the video again, frowning at the screen. "I see what you mean about the step sequence."

"You didn't seem to like it very much," Yakov observed as he watched the on-screen Victor, his face blank. The lack of expression wasn't doing anything for the program. "It didn't have your usual personality to it. You embodied your free skate very well, but this one... I don't think it suits you."

"I guess not."

When Victor went to restart the video yet again, Yakov gently took the phone from him, stopped the video, and put it down on the boards. "It's not unsalvageable, but you can do better work than that."

"I know." He put on a smile. "Okay, it's not the first time the first idea didn't work out. I'll come up with something better."

Yakov nodded. Victor still seemed somewhat put-out by it, but it was true that even Victor had duds. Brilliance was not a permanent state for anyone, including him. He would make something better, like he always had before, create something that would take the audience's breath away.

They would go over the video of the free skate later and discuss the jump layout, as well as changes to it, things to add and things to adjust. For now, they would work on other things instead. Victor still seemed somewhat tired, so Yakov didn't want to push him too much today, but – was there also something else off about him? "How is your body feeling?"

"Fine?" He did a little shimmy backward, then forward. "See, I'm good."

"No injuries? Nothing happened at your ice shows?"

"I did fall a few times, but it was just like in practice. Nothing happened. What, are you going to ask if I ate properly, too, when I was beyond your caring gaze for a few days?" He was grinning, his voice light.

"I already know you didn't." Victor loved Japanese food. And Chinese food, and Italian, and French, and for that matter, Russian food. As long as he didn't gain too much weight, summer was the best time for him to enjoy eating a bit more than usual.

"Really," Victor said, still smiling. "There's nothing wrong. So what are we going to work on?"

It was a more productive session than normal, and it was nice to have fewer people than usual to dodge around as he followed Victor on the ice, calling out directions and corrections. Afterward, once Victor had cooled down and stretched, they watched the video of his free program again in Yakov's office, this time on the computer. Victor took a page full of notes before Yakov opened his mouth, then took down another page full as they discussed it. Or argued, in some cases. Victor was always stubborn about the difficulty of his planned layouts, right from the beginning of the season, and the conversation was well-worn by now after years of repeating the same arguments.

Four quads – different quads! – and an axel-loop-loop this time, because he could, because Victor always had to push forward. Yakov felt dizzy just looking at the base value once they had decided which jumps might be in the second half for the bonus. If Victor could skate this to his usual standards, then without a major mistake or two, his competitors would have a difficult time matching him this year as well.

Victor was usually happy to have something to work on, but he seemed distracted as he put his notes away when they were finished. Maybe he had a new idea for the short program already, or maybe the time zone change was catching up to him, his body's clock not yet quite adjusted.

Yakov walked with him to the exit of the rink. Victor was quiet, but he perked up some when they stepped out into the fresh air. "I'll see you back here on Monday," Yakov said, pushing his hands into his pockets. "We made a good start today. I want to see how far we can develop this before you leave for your next set of shows."

"And I'll think of a new short program, too."

"Yes, yes, of course you will." He nodded at Victor, who waved and turned to make his short walk home. Yakov turned and went his own way to his nice, quiet apartment, ready for some rest after the long day.

He didn't go to the rink the next day, given that he had it off. He spent his time lazily instead, spending more time on breakfast than usual, taking the time to bother reading the paper, going grocery shopping and not hurrying on the way home.

Georgi was posting plenty of photos from his vacation with his girlfriend – the two of them looked happy – while Yuri had uploaded one of some pirozhki, with an uncharacteristically sweet caption about his grandfather's cooking skills. Victor had posted a small snippet from yesterday's video last night, which had already gained many enthusiastic comments. Even Mila, busy with her own ice show schedule, had taken the time to write one. It was nice to see his students getting along with each other and enjoying their summers.

As night fell, the pleasant sunny day turned into rain. Yakov left a window open for a little while for the cool breeze in the kitchen as he made dinner, only shutting it when the downpour turned intense.

He was reading after dinner – had been for at least an hour – when there came an unexpected sound over that of the hard rain: a knock on his door. Yakov wondered who it was as he went to answer it – one of his neighbors, perhaps? He knew a few of them, though not that well.

It wasn't one of his neighbors at the door. It was Victor, soaking wet, giving Yakov a rueful smile as he opened the door all the way and stared at him. What on Earth? There was no reason for Victor to suddenly turn up here without at least calling him beforehand, not at this hour. Had he missed a call or a text, with his phone right beside him?

Yakov snapped out of his surprise after a long moment. It was night and Victor was completely wet from the rain, wearing only light clothes. Something was wrong here. "Get inside."

He hurried to fetch towels. One he dropped open on the couch on his way back, while he threw another at Victor, who was still standing in the entrance and poking at his wet shoes. He came along when Yakov directed him into the couch and tossed another towel into his lap, before plopping a smaller one on his head.

Victor laughed and wrapped one towel around his shoulders. "Yakov, it's summer. I'm not going to get hypothermia!"

Unimpressed, Yakov touched the back of his hand to one of Victor's. It was very cold. "How long were you out there?"

"I don't know. The rain kind of caught me."

That either meant hours, or that Victor was lying for no reason. And he was smiling, but something about it was wrong. Plastered-on. It didn't sit well with Yakov. "It started quite a while ago. Why were you out in the rain for so long without an umbrella or a coat?" Why had Victor come here, instead of home? They both lived near the rink, not far from each other. He sat down beside Victor and started to rub his hair dry for him, since Victor was still busy trying to arrange the other towels Yakov had shoved at him.

"I was just thinking about things and I didn't really notice. That's all. Sorry, I guess it was weird to bother you." He laughed again, but this one sounded fake. Yakov's unease increased. "Once I get dried off, I can call a cab home or something."

"Not until you tell me what this is about, surely."

"What it's about? It's not about anything. I'll be fine once I warm up a little. Everything's okay."

"No, it is not," Yakov snapped. "You show up at my apartment in the middle of the night after having been in the rain for, what, hours? Cold and soaked all the way through? That's not okay! That's not _fine_ and it's not normal!" The fake easygoing expression Victor was wearing froze. "You're not leaving until I hear a good explanation as to why you're here. If you just wanted to warm up, you could have called a cab outside. You could be home with your dog right now. What's wrong?"

And why was he trying to pretend that nothing was?

Victor peered at him from under the towel. Yakov didn't know what to do with the awkward silence as it ticked by, so he excused himself to make tea. In the kitchen, he took down the cups slower than he needed to as the water heated. It didn't seem like there were very many things this could be about.

Retirement? Victor couldn't be retiring yet. He was making new programs! He hadn't once mentioned the idea! And Yakov knew that the idea of retirement could be fraught – he'd been there, and he'd seen quite a few skaters struggle with when the right time was – but it still seemed strange for Victor to be this upset about it when it wasn't right around the corner. Victor was twenty-six, yes, but it wasn't exactly unheard of to compete for years yet. He was healthy (as healthy as one could be, with all those quads and triple axels) and loved skating. He couldn't be thinking of retiring now.

Yakov found himself fiddling with the box of tea and made himself put it down. There was no use fretting before Victor had said anything, and anyway, the odd pull in his chest at the thought of Victor's retirement should have no bearing on Victor's decisions. They were his to make.

When he brought the tea out, Victor looked at his cup but didn't pick it up from the coffee table. He didn't say anything, either. Yakov sat back with his cup and decided that maybe the best thing to do this time was to wait it out.

It wasn't long before the silence had Victor fidgeting. Not much longer still until Yakov's patience was rewarded. "Promise you won't make fun of me," Victor said abruptly.

"Why would I—" At Victor's look, Yakov said, "Fine. I'll listen to what you have to say."

Victor was silent for another minute, and then he did something that made Yakov even more worried: he tipped his still-damp head onto Yakov's shoulder and didn't quite shrink, but certainly curled in on himself, folding his legs under the towels like they were blankets. "It's hard to put in words," he said. "I... do you remember Worlds?"

"Of course I do." Victor had had an uncharacteristically rough free skate: he'd put his toe pick down wrong on one combination, both ruining the jump and sending him into a hard fall. Then he'd fallen on his next quad, as well, after badly under-rotating it. It had been bad luck, a bad day. Victor had laughed afterward before he took his bows. It wasn't until much later that Yakov had seen him holding his hip and wincing, but in the end it had been nothing worse than a nasty bruise, thankfully.

"And you remember how Chris skated lights out right afterward and did so well. I only won because of the short program. But... while we were all waiting to hear the scores, I was trying to figure out if he could beat mine. And I wasn't dreading it. Actually, I was thinking almost that it would be nice, or at least that it would be nice if things were different this time. When he didn't, I was kind of disappointed. Don't say it sounds stupid – I _know_."

Yakov said nothing while Victor took a breath. Yes, it sounded very silly, and Yakov did have an urge to tell him off for it. But at the same time, Victor had always been competitive. Of course he was. He couldn't have gotten to where he was on pure love of skating, and he didn't take his success for granted, or as given. It was concerning to hear him talk like that, like his competitive streak was absent.

"And I keep thinking of next season and I'm not even looking forward to it. I don't know why. I said I'd come up with another program, but that was my only other idea and I didn't like it that much in the first place. I've been trying to think of something else for months! Nothing else feels right for a program, either. And even practice isn't as fun as it should be, lately. I went to the ice shows and it was nice, and I kept worrying about what all my fans out there would think if I didn't show them something good next year and what could I do.... I don't know what's _wrong_."

Yakov shifted his tea in his hands and wrapped an arm over Victor's shoulders. He could feel him relax slightly into it; touch had always been something that Victor liked, that cheered him up and calmed him. When Victor said nothing further for the moment, he cleared his throat. "Could it be burnout? If you need to, you could try taking the GP series off—"

"I can't," said Victor. "You know that. Everyone would think I'm injured or over-the-hill, that I'm retiring and don't want to say so. I can't retire yet! Besides, I don't know what to do besides skating." His words were tumbling out of him. "What, I can choreograph, I can coach, I can commentate, I can do ice shows – but if I can't choreograph my programs, how can I do shows? I know I have to retire at some point, but what am I supposed to do afterward?" He shut his mouth with a little clicking sound, like his brain had just caught up to what he was saying and decided to stop.

There was – that was a lot more than he'd expected. Victor was always so confident in himself. No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk about it. Yakov hardly knew what to do with everything he'd just said; feelings had never been his strong point. Neither had inspiration. He'd enjoyed getting into his programs as a skater, but there had been no question about him going into choreography when he retired.

One thing at a time. The most immediate and fixable things, then the harder ones. "First," he said, "do you _want_ to skate next season? Forget your fans. Screw the federation. For _yourself_ , Vitya, do you think you want to skate?"

There was a long silence. Victor's shoulders were tense under his arm. Yakov breathed in and out, steadily, thinking while he waited for Victor's reply. Finally, Victor said, "I want to skate more than I don't want to skate. Not as much as usual. But I want to."

Thank goodness. That was something. "Then you need to figure out what the problem is. You've always loved skating. Is it the pressure from your fans? From yourself? Are you simply tired of competing? Are you frustrated with this creative block and that's affecting your enjoyment? I'm not demanding an answer this moment," he said when Victor shifted his head to look up at him, "or ever. But think about it. You have to know where this comes from to solve it."

"Okay," Victor sighed.

"As for what happens afterward... you have time to decide that. You would have time even if you retired right now." He took a deeper breath. "But you have to promise me one thing for when you do retire."

"What? Do you want flowers? Specific ones?"

"I don't care about flowers. But promise me that you won't become a commentator."

Victor laughed and lifted himself away from Yakov's shoulder. "What? Do you think I'd be that bad at it?"

"I've heard the things you say to rink mates' faces! You're perceptive, yes, that doesn't mean you know when to stop talking and how to say it." Victor could pinpoint exactly what was wrong with someone. He had yet to figure out that there were good ways and bad ways to say those things. Yakov didn't believe in sugarcoating, but there was a difference between helpful bluntness and making someone feel dispirited.

"So no coaching, either?"

"I didn't say that." Yakov paused to sip on some of his tea, now that it was cool enough to drink, and Victor reached for his own cup, though he just held it. "Like I said, you're perceptive. It's everything else involved that you need to learn, first. Wasn't that what your useless piece of university paper was supposed to teach you?"

"I learned that concussions are bad and what are the risk factors for stress fractures," Victor said with fake earnestness. "Just like how you said in all those lectures when I was a teenager! Although mostly I learned about choreography."

"Which is still an option! I don't know why you're getting so anxious over having trouble with one program. Maybe you just need to stop worrying about it."

"Maybe." The humor in Victor's eyes left and he looked towards the ground. Great. This was why Yakov never gave creative advice beyond approving or disapproving of costumes and music and programs his students brought to him.

"Besides," he continued. "It's not like you have to be all one thing or the other or as though you can't see what suits you first. Lambiel coaches and choreographs, doesn't he? Wasn't he your idol when you were younger? You could even start looking at different paths now. I know you've done choreography for a couple of other skaters, and Yura is going to want his promised program next year," (the way Victor's head jerked up at this suggested he'd entirely forgotten about that), "and we have a summer camp next month after you get back from your next show. You could help out for once." Victor usually showed up anyway at some point to watch the kids and dole out a few compliments, leaving a wake of starry-eyed adolescents.

"You'd let me at impressionable young people? You really must trust in my abilities."

"I didn't say _unsupervised_. Anyway, something like that with a fixed time limit would be a good way to start. If you find it boring, you can move on to something else you're interested in. If not, you'll gain some experience." He wasn't sure how good Victor would be at it, or how he would find it; he was flighty, yes, but not incapable of sticking to something. He liked to change his mind about programs before the season started, or get bored with them halfway through, and he had more gala programs some seasons than could be counted on one hand, but he'd stuck with skating for all these years.

"Okay. I've always thought coaching sounded like fun." Victor brought his cup to his mouth to start drinking his tea, then pulled it away in surprise. "You sweetened it enough!"

"I know how you like your tea by now." Disgustingly sweet, by Yakov's standards. But it was summer. Victor could stand to have some extra sugar if he wanted.

Victor smiled at him – a real smile, this time – and went back to sipping at the tea. They sat in a silence that was more comfortable now, listening to the sound of the rain, until Victor said, "I need to be getting back to Makkachin."

Yakov took the towels to dry while Victor called a cab, then fetched him a raincoat despite Victor's protests. "There's no need to get any wetter than you need to." He dropped it over Victor's head and watched him smother a laugh before he started to pull it on. "And Vitya? Next time something happens, come talk to me before you're at the point of showing up in the middle of the night."

"Ah." Victor fiddled with the sleeves of the coat. "I guess I should."

"Or someone. It doesn't have to be me."

"But who else will take me in from the driving rain at no notice because I need help solving my life problems that I should be able to fix by myself?"

Yakov shook his head. "What, do you think you should be able to fix your jumps by yourself, too? That's why I'm your coach. You don't need to work on everything alone."

Victor opened his mouth, then pulled out his phone as it started to ring. "Yes?" he said, answering it. "Yes, I'll be right down."

Yakov saw him out. He didn't look completely untroubled, but what was there to expect after everything he'd laid out? Victor's problems weren't going to be solved just like that. Yakov was still processing everything he'd said – Victor, being bored by skating? It was difficult to believe.

Laying in bed that night, Yakov thought about what Victor had said about Worlds. Tried to remember what Victor had looked like then, if anything had happened before, after, that might have been off. Might have clued him in to what Victor was feeling about his competitions, if only he'd seen it. It was difficult to tell, which was troubling in and of itself, given how long he'd known Victor and all the things he'd seen him through.

But Victor had made it through cut-throat competition and injuries and still come out as the best skater the world had ever seen. Yakov knew that he was more than capable of getting his inspiration and motivation back, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Yakov Week (now the backup week) Day 1: Yakov the coach | beginnings | ends  
> This chapter also inspired by the prompt generator (which seems to be down at the moment): Victor Nikiforov, Yakov Feltsman, one of your weaknesses, at midnight, quiet and/or disquiet, insecurity, hypothermia
> 
> The whole thing may/may not get posted this week, we'll see. My brain got a bit overenthusiastic about this fic idea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yakov Week (now backup week) Day 2: Motivation | goals

The next time Yakov saw Victor at the rink, it was like nothing had happened. He showed up to morning practice a few minutes late, but there was nothing unusual about that; sometimes he simply lost track of time saying good-bye to Makkachin.

He didn't look bored by practice. Yuri was the one griping as Yakov directed him through some exercises and then jump practice; Victor glided by on occasion, working on his own with a focused expression.

Yakov didn't bring up his short program. They focused on the free skate instead, and the skills Victor intended to include in it. Though it had a long way to go, it was already in better shape by the end of the day as they started to work their way down Victor's list.

They stopped to talk about the program after everyone had come off the last session, lingering near the exit to the rink as the ice was re-surfaced. Victor was changing his mind about some elements, had new things he wanted to try, as he figured out what worked and what didn't. Better for him to get it out of his system now than to start making drastic changes in the middle of the season because he was a little unhappy with how part of it worked.

There was no hint that anything was wrong as they talked. Nothing like the sharp unhappiness that had been on Victor's face that night.

"About the other night," Yakov finally said, starting to wonder if the whole thing had been a strange dream.

Victor hastily put on a smile. "Sorry for bothering you like that! You don't need to worry or anything."

"You didn't bother me, and saying I don't need to worry makes me worry more," Yakov grumbled. "That's what you say before adding something like _I want to do a different entrance to my quad flip, this one is too boring now that I've used it for one whole season_."

Victor's grin became a little more real. "But it's okay. I'm trying things to get new inspiration, I promise. I'm not a child anymore, I can handle it."

"I think I noticed that much by the time you cut your hair." What did that have to do with anything? "And I'm not worried about your inspiration. I know you'll find it somehow or other." He gave Victor a long look. "You won't trouble me if you need to tell me anything else, you realize."

"Okay," said Victor, in a tone that was difficult to read. "I should go take my skates off before my blades rust in the guards."

Later that week, the rink director greeted him as they happened to catch each other in the hallway. They had the normal chit-chat – the budget was looking good for this year, the government clearly saw the value in investing in the rink that produced champions, the plans for another ice surface were coming along but it wouldn't be ready for a while yet. Then he asked Yakov, "Are you coming in tomorrow?"

Tomorrow was a day off. Yakov took whole weekends during most of the summer, and a day and a half the rest of the year. This had been the case for well over a decade now. Yakov gave him a glance. "Should I?"

"I was just wondering, since Nikiforov charmed me into letting him have some early ice tomorrow, as long as he doesn't screw it up for the people using it afterward. He promised me no jumps."

Of course Victor could get away with things like that. Three individual Olympic medals and nobody questioned the occasional special request. "What time?"

The next morning, having had one coffee and with a thermos full of more in his hands, Yakov walked to the rink very early. He grumbled to himself the whole way. He probably didn't even need to be there, but Victor was worrying him. And 'promised no jumps', hah. Yakov had known better since Victor was a doe-eyed child. He would have jumped himself into an early grave by now if Yakov hadn't been around to keep him under control.

There was nobody else around this early. Nobody but Victor in the rink, where he was already gliding on the ice. He had earbuds in. Despite the fact that they weren't much danger like this, Yakov still itched to rip them out. Instead, he settled against the boards with his coffee. He didn't bother to hide his presence, but Victor didn't seem to notice him, either.

After a couple more minutes of warming up, Victor reached into his pocket to fiddle with his phone, then took a clear starting pose in the middle of the ice. As he skated, he really did mark the jumps – maybe, after all this time, he was learning. Or maybe he was just too focused on the choreography he was trying out to bother with jumps.

The choreography was – well, it was something. Better put together than far more final programs that Yakov had seen other skaters using. But it wasn't as good as what Victor usually had. Yakov guessed he was skating to some sort of pop song from the movements, but they lacked his usual energy, or anything really special.

It was clear that Victor knew it, too, because he stopped after only two minutes to put his hands on his hips and stare at the ice. He took a couple of steps, even gave a little stomp, and turned around on a shallow edge. It was rare to see him so obviously frustrated. He was so good about keeping his composure in public. If it had been a normal ice session, he would have been skating around the edge of the rink with a thoughtful expression, not scratching at it with his toe picks before taking off again.

He was just screwing around, this time, perhaps trying to find something: Ina Bauer to spread eagle to half-hearted spiral that Yakov badly wanted to correct. Then back across the rink on one foot, doing steps. Back across on a better spiral that he held for long enough to coast across the entire surface of the ice and halfway back again. A camel spin where he pulled his foot up into a shallow arc across his back for a few revolutions, then let go and started a new spin where he tipped his upper body over into a layback. It wasn't as pretty of one as he'd done as a teenager, because he'd only done such positions in one or two programs in the years since cutting his hair. Little running steps across the ice into a lunge, then back to the center, where he put his hands in the small of his back and resumed staring at the ice.

After a minute, when the ice apparently gave him no answers, Yakov opened his thermos and took a few sips. He cleared his throat. "Vitya?"

Victor looked up slowly, his face blank. He removed his earbuds, each action deliberate, then skated over to Yakov. "It wasn't working."

"I can see that."

"Not the music, not the moves – none of it."

Any suggestion that Victor could recycle one of his old programs, or that Yakov could maybe possibly choose his music for him, would be shot down in a heartbeat. Yakov didn't bother. "You still have time. It's only May. If you really can't think of anything, you can do what everyone else does and perform to _Carmen_."

Victor snorted. "I wouldn't be so cruel as to torture you with having to hear _Toreador, en ga~arde, Toreador, Toreador_ endlessly for months." He hummed part of _Habanera_ for good measure, and cracked a smile when Yakov winced.

"Well, there's always – what else are the kids skating to these days, _Moulin Rouge_ and _Les Mis_ and _Phantom of the Opera_ and _The King and the Skater_ and _Princesses of Ice and Mirrors_."

"Boring," said Victor. His smile fell.

"Surely you've been trying something to choose a song. Still not working yet?"

"I've been doing nothing at home but listen to music, and anything that sounds good in one moment fails to win me over the next day. I have a whole playlist of potential songs and I don't want to skate to any of them. I don't understand."

Yakov frowned. Something occurred to him, half-forgotten news articles. "Well, it could be creative block or burnout, but have you seen your doctor lately?" Victor gave him a blank look, as though Yakov didn't know he saw doctors constantly. "I mean, have you mentioned this to one of them? Just to make sure there isn't anything medical going on?"

"I don't have any symptoms of anything. I guess I can mention it? Wouldn't that be nice, if it turned out I'm just missing some vitamin or hormone or whatever and they can give me a pill and everything goes back to normal."

"You can also talk to the psychologist. You're not the first skater to lose some of your motivation, Vitya. I'm sure she's seen it before."

That got him a scoff. "I don't need a psychologist! What, will she teach me to meditate all my problems away or whatever it is that Zhora likes to go on about?"

"Vitya—" Victor started to move away from the boards, hands reaching for the earbuds tucked into his collar. Yakov leaned over the boards to snatch his wrists to keep him there. He ignored the shocked look Victor gave him. "How long has this been going on? Has it been getting any better? No, and now it's at the point where it's not just affecting your ability to enjoy competition, it's crushing your creativity, it's making you wander up to my door in the middle of the night during a storm because you desperately want a way out of it. Do you think it's going to go away _now_? Why aren't you using the resources you have, when you have more than almost anyone? The best doctors, the best therapists – just because it might be in your head doesn't mean it's not a problem you need to treat!"

Victor blinked at him. His wrists were still in Yakov's grip; though they'd gotten a bit thicker as Victor had become an adult, they still felt fragile under Yakov's fingers, the bones prominent. "What?"

"Look, Zhora sees one. You hear the things he says about her. I've seen students improve after going to one, get over fears that were holding them back or stop being such head-cases at competitions. Your head is part of you. That's where most of the skating comes from, before your legs make it happen. So you need to take care of it. Ignoring it will help as much as ignoring a fracture will make it heal properly."

"Wow," said Victor, after a long moment of silence. "I always thought it would be Zhora telling me to see a shrink some day, not you."

"I've seen it work, so that's why I'm telling you." He let Victor go and folded his arms on the boards. "I don't get you advice I don't believe in. You realize that. So go talk to your doctors before it gets even _worse_ and, I don't know, you wake up one day and you can't feel your feet under you."

Why was he smiling again? "I don't think that's very likely. But, okay, I understand, you love us too much for anything bad to happen. I'll talk to my doctors next week. And I won't get any concussions so my poor head doesn't go even more astray."

Yakov rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, very good." He reached for his coffee again. "Now, are you going to skate some more, or can I go home and try to make up for my lost sleep?"

"I guess I'll put the playlist of songs I kind of liked on shuffle and just skate for a while. I never have the ice to myself for practice! Look at this – doesn't it make you want to take up the whole surface? Do power stroking and then pretend spiral sequences are a thing again?"

"You can afford to rent rinks for yourself, if you like the feeling so much."

Victor pushed off from the boards and did a wide spin, his arms spun open. "But they're not _our_ rink. It's different. Don't you feel it, Yakov?"

He did not. "You have another half-hour to take it in before you get kicked off. Get going."

So Victor did, and he spent the rest of his time alternating between complex footwork that seemed to be made up on the spot, powerful strokes, and held positions. Some of them were a little strange – Victor's creativity didn't appear to be entirely dried up – but they were nice to look at. He knew how to hold them when they needed holding, and had the strength to do so. None of this whip-fast rushed nonsense that Yuri, and sometimes Mila, still, struggled with.

He was lovely to watch. Victor had always been lovely to watch, and years and years of concentrated practice and his raw, natural talent had only made it more difficult to look away from him. To see him alone on the ice for once, practicing and not performing, was something else. It put something good in Yakov's chest, like pride, or the quiet joy of seeing a beautiful theater performance.

When it was time to come off the ice, Victor accepted Yakov's offer of the rest of his thermos. "I'll let you get back to your beauty sleep now," he teased.

It was nice to see him back in his usual mood. "And you go return to yours. And don't forget the doctors! I want to hear from you that everything is fine, or else that they found a problem and are working on it."

"I will, I will. You're such a worrywart! Everything will be fine."

"You can stop reassuring me." And it would be; Victor would be back to his normal self sometime. If only Yakov could simply give him back his inspiration.

But Victor was nothing if not stubborn and determined. He would be fine. It might take some work to get there, but if he could win Olympic medals, Yakov didn't see why he couldn't find his creative impulses again. Victor was the one worrying far too much here.

~!~

It wasn't that unusual for Victor to invite him over to dinner, especially during the summer when he wanted excuses to cook something more interesting than normal. It did usually mean that Victor wanted to talk about something – an upgraded layout, a nagging injury, _Yakov I had this brilliant idea for a new program_ , that sort of thing.

So as he entered Victor's apartment – Victor had called out to let himself in, and he did – and fended off an excited Makkachin, he wondered if this was about something in particular, rather than just being a social call.

In the kitchen, Victor was frowning over some pans on the stove. "Sorry," he said. "I forgot something and had to go buy it, so I got started late. It's going to be a few more minutes."

Whatever 'it' was, it smelled good. Warm and a little spicy. Yakov peeked into one pan, decided he didn't know what the dish was called, and left Victor to it.

Makkachin followed him to the already-set table and put her head in his lap. If Victor wanted to talk about anything, he didn't launch into it yet, instead humming along to the soft music playing on his phone. Yakov scratched Makkachin's soft ears and listened along; he didn't recognize most of the music, but it wasn't that bad. Victor's taste was better than Mila's, at least.

After their dinner, which was delicious and full of nothing but inconsequential conversation, Yakov insisted on helping to clean up despite Victor's protests. "You're my hard-working coach!"

"Yes, and you're my hard-working student who's responsible for half our funding," said Yakov, edging past Victor to put the plates in the dishwasher. Like everything in this kitchen, it was so spotless it looked brand-new, though it wasn't.

"And you're _my_ guest. At least let me make tea for you." With that, Victor managed to shoo him out of the kitchen.

His living room was almost as clean as the kitchen, though there were a few books scattered about, and his laptop was sitting open on the coffee table. For some reason, it hadn't gone to power saving mode after all this time, perhaps because it was plugged in. Yakov went to close it for him and couldn't help but notice what was on the screen.

Shoved into one corner was a TubeTube video. Most of the rest of the screen was taken up by notes on the performance from the video. Yakov couldn't help but scroll the tiny browser window a little to see what it was, and to his surprise, it was one of Victor's old performances.

 _Old_ performances. Euros, 2007, his best version of his free skate that season. The one at Worlds had been good, enough for a gold medal there as well, but not quite as perfect.

"Oh," said Victor, coming into the room with his dog right on his heels. Yakov jumped.

"Sorry," he said. "I meant to close it and save you the electricity."

"It's fine," Victor said with a little laugh. "You can read it, if you want." He set the tea down and plopped on the couch next to Yakov; not even a second later he was reaching for Makkachin to start cuddling with her. "I was looking for something and came across this, and it's been so long I thought I might as well watch it, and I ended up writing down what I was thinking. I'm kind of tempted to post it somewhere to see if I get hatemail for it. Maybe it'll end up being useful practice for coaching?"

Yakov could see why any messages wouldn't be complimentary, unless they were from that small group of haters Victor had inevitably accumulated simply by being successful. Victor had picked what seemed like every nit that could possibly be found in the program, including some Yakov disagreed with. It was true that the one spin hadn't been quite perfect, that his last combination had been a hair under-rotated, though not enough to count, that his expression had slipped to blankness in the run-up to this one jump. But he was entirely missing everything else.

"Vitya, if you think coaching is anything like this, you haven't been paying any attention for the last fifteen years."

Victor looked up. "What's wrong with what I wrote? I already know it's only about the details, but—"

"You can't just dump an entire list of criticisms on someone all at once, for one thing. And look! Watch this again and tell me what you think the good points are." He shoved the laptop back towards Victor, who sighed and started to play the video once more.

Yakov couldn't see the screen from the laptop's new angle, so he watched Victor's face. It didn't change the whole way through the video as the familiar music of _Swan Lake_ played from the speakers, as the Victor from eight years ago jumped and danced his way to a gold medal. It had been a wonderful performance, not that Yakov would have been able to tell from Victor's stoic expression.

When the video finished, something unhappy twisted the corners of Victor's mouth. He closed the laptop and moved it back to the coffee table, his actions deliberate. "I look happy," he snapped in response to Yakov's questioning look.

"Vitya," said Yakov. It was true; Yakov could still remember how wide his smile had been. How wide it had always been, for that program and for any competition where he'd done well. Had it been, lately? Yakov couldn't recall.

"I loved that program," Victor said, wistful, and he turned and pressed his forehead to Yakov's shoulder. Yakov had scarcely touched the back of his head, surprised, when Victor did something even more surprising: he twisted in his seat so he could put his head in Yakov's lap.

He hadn't done that for years. Occasionally, when he was a teenager, during the times he had stayed with Yakov and Lilia. The last time had been... perhaps even longer ago than that video. Victor, bright and lovely and Olympic-gold-medalist Victor, had come back earlier than expected, thrown himself down across the couch with his head on Yakov's knee, and burst into tears. Lilia had made tea, and Yakov had put a hand on his hair, and they'd waited for him to calm down and tell them what was wrong.

That time, it had been a particularly cruel break-up. This time, there was tea, but no Lilia, and at least Victor wasn't crying (he hadn't done that in years, either, not around Yakov), though Yakov still wondered what was going on in that head of his. He put a hand on his shoulder, felt the tension there even as Victor ran his hand down Makkachin's head again.

"I wish I could come up with a program I liked that much again. Wow, Yakov, listen to me whine. 'Winning everything is so boring I wish someone would beat me for once just to make things interesting again.' 'My programs aren't as fun as they used to be, how can I stand it'. How do you put up with me when even I think it sounds ridiculous? _That_ Victor would have been overjoyed to be where I am."

 _Burnout_ , Yakov thought, again. Even if he wouldn't take the season off, there had to be something he would do.

"Did you talk to your doctors yet?"

"Today. They'll call me when the blood tests are finished. They said it might be low levels of something. If not, it must be all in my head."

"Maybe you need a vacation. Not ice shows. Take your dog somewhere, don't worry about your fans or your programs for a few days."

"Maybe," said Victor. "It's weird to hear you telling me _not_ to get back to work."

Yakov shrugged and leaned further back into the couch. Victor twisted around and shifted so that the back of his head was resting next to Yakov's knee, no longer on it. There didn't seem to be a good place to put his right hand, with Victor now in the way. "It's not like you haven't been working hard for all those gold medals you're complaining about. Some rest could help. Don't you have some friends you could visit with?" That was what Yakov tended to do with his time off – visit old friends back in Moscow, relatives he liked scattered here and there.

"I think Chris said he's going on vacation with his parents. But we did go shopping when we were in Japan. It was nice. He was hoping this Japanese skater he knew would be willing to show us around and translate, but he caught the flu so he couldn't come to the show." He looked down at Makkachin. "Why don't we go to the beach, darling? You can chase the seagulls and the waves until the sun goes down." As he talked to her – his voice going progressively higher and his words becoming shorter – he reached up and guided Yakov's hand to his hair.

It was a little strange, but at least it was a comfortable place to put his hand, and Victor's hair was soft underneath his fingers. When he shifted them, he more felt than heard Victor give a soft sigh.

"Trying out something else might work as a mental break, too," Yakov added when Victor was done telling Makkachin things she wouldn't understand. "Coaching during the summer camp, for example. Or you could see if someone at the rink wants a program, see if you're just blocked on your own. You do beautiful choreography; I'm sure any of the younger skaters would be over to the moon to have some."

"You're so practical," Victor said with a laugh. "Here I am complaining, and you have so many ideas for solutions."

Yakov had never been good with sympathizing in the face of venting; he could offer silent comfort, or he could try to solve the problem, which apparently wasn't always welcome. But Victor didn't seem to mind this time; he sat up and stretched, his arms unfolding above his head and his spine cracking.

They both reached for their tea, and they spent a while longer talking about the summer camp, about what Yakov would and wouldn't let Victor do, what to fit in around Victor's own training schedule. Makkachin joined them on the couch, tucked into Victor's side, and though Victor himself remained sitting up, he stayed close to Yakov. They were close enough that their shoulders touched and they had to be careful not to bump arms as they sipped their tea.

Probably he still wanted some comfort; no matter how many suggestions Yakov threw at him, they wouldn't resolve the problem in an hour. If it helped, that was fine, and at least Victor was warm and not some stranger on a bus. It wasn't like Victor hadn't fallen asleep on his shoulder before, in the back of taxis and in airports waiting for long-delayed flights.

It was getting late by the time he left. "It should be your turn to complain next time," Victor suggested as Yakov pulled his shoes on.

"I don't have anything to complain about that you need to be hearing." He was hardly about to tell Victor any irritations he had with him or his rink mates – that was simply unprofessional – and Victor also didn't need to be subjected to an old man grousing about his body's aches, only some of which were the result of his skating career.

"Really? Nothing? You don't get lonely or anything?"

Yakov glanced up as he tied a shoe. "Lonely? I only spend all day surrounded by you and the others at the rink."

"But that's work. And Lilia's not around anymore, so I thought going home to an empty apartment every day might get lonely. Maybe you're the kind of person to appreciate it, though!"

Yakov finished with his shoelaces and stood, slowly. He wondered if Victor was really talking about himself, there; he'd only mentioned Chris, earlier, and no other friends. Or maybe he did have some that Yakov simply didn't know about, as he didn't try to put himself into every aspect of his students' lives, and he was just asking after Yakov, and that tone to his voice was genuine.

Either way, though his first instinct was to brush the concern off again, his second was to remember how Victor had been saying so many things Yakov hadn't even suspected. So he ended up saying, "It gets a little quiet sometimes." He didn't need to be around people every hour of the day, and some time alone was a relief; on the other hand, there were times the silence, the feeling of being alone in his bed, bothered him. Possibly he still wasn't used to the divorce. He and Lilia might have been separated for several years, now, but they had been married for a very, very long time.

"Then maybe Makkachin and I should come over once in a while to keep you company."

"I'm not so old I need you looking after me yet."

"It's not looking after you if you do the cooking, is it?"

Yakov shook his head, and after they exchanged a few more words and a proper good-bye, left.

It was nice enough out to walk, and not that far, so he let his feet carry him back to his apartment. Thinking. Thinking of how happy the Victor in the video had been, indeed – Yakov still remembered Victor hugging him from sheer delight when he'd first come off the ice.

Thinking of how Victor had been so delighted after his first Olympic medal that he'd shown up at breakfast still wired and having obviously not slept. Of how he'd smiled so widely with his second, despite the fact that he'd earned it on painkillers. Of how he hadn't been so exuberant with his third, the year before last. If he'd thought about it, Yakov might have decided that it was just Victor growing up, maturing, being firmly in the realm of adulthood by that point. But had it really? Had even that medal, gleaming gold, an achievement not seen since before even Yakov had first toddled onto the ice, not meant as much as the ones before it?

He really had missed whatever had happened to Victor, hadn't he, up until it was visible in the program Victor had shown him.

There wasn't much use in being disappointed in himself now, though. So he'd missed it. So Victor hadn't told him earlier. Now he did know, and would do what he could to support Victor as his coach.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yakov Week (now backup week) day 3: ~~past~~ | present | ~~future~~ lover
> 
> In which the fic edges towards its eventual rating. (n.b. some alcohol is involved, but no-one is very drunk)

Yuri came back from Moscow just as Victor left for it. He was less surly than usual, though just as lazy about wanting to practice. A few days of Mila's teasing cured him of his quieter mood.

Also, he'd brought pirozhki for them. Victor would have pouted if he'd known he was missing out on Nikolai's pirozhki; they were better than anything one could buy in a bakery, and tasted precisely like a memory of a warm childhood kitchen.

Victor posted photos from the show, selfies with the other performers and a couple of shots of practice, along with a video of everyone fussing over Makkachin. After the show ended, he sent Yakov a message saying he was coming back later than expected, and then went quiet for several days. Georgi, who had also been at the show (audiences loved him) came straight back and went to work on his programs.

Three students were enough to handle, especially with the preparations for the summer camp to get through, too. Yuri was getting old enough that Yakov let him – very cautiously, in much moderation – start to practice his quad salchow, because he wanted to go senior at fifteen and he was going to need quads for it. There were other juniors who were older and did them, or whose coaches were less cautious than Yakov was, but Yuri was still steamrolling them with his better GOEs and PCS and consistent performances. That wouldn't be enough to carry him through seniors, unfortunately.

His other students didn't want to leave their technical content where it was, either, of course. Between them and the constant emails and last-minute details he had to arrange for the summer camp, Yakov hardly noticed that Victor was gone.

When Victor did show up again, Yakov found himself trying to find any hint of difference. Was his smile more real than before? Was his voice lighter, when he bantered with Mila? Was there anything to his skating? It was hard to tell, just as it had been difficult to see anything before. But he was smiling, at least.

The summer camp was a mix of Russian children and those from nearby countries with less-developed skating support. All of them wanted so desperately to prove themselves – some of them, no doubt, wanted to train with him or the other coaches who worked here, wanted to show that they were worthy of the opportunity. Some smiled with a sharpness to it, while others worked with serious eyes.

Yuri had once had those eyes. They'd only lasted for so long before his real personality had emerged. Victor, that once-in-a-lifetime talent, had been cheerful and confident from the moment he'd come to the rink to try out, like he knew Yakov was already set on him.

There was something about leading classes of children who soaked in every word he said that was both gratifying and a little creepy after working with his students. Even the ones who came in with more assurance of their own talents were soon working hard, applying their new lessons.

Of course, the instant that Victor first stepped on the ice, every bit of that diligence completely fled the rink as they flocked to say hello to him, or stared from afar if they were shier. Victor was gracious in handling them – that had always been a strong point for him, only reinforced by more than a decade of PR training. He greeted the shy ones, not just the bold ones; he had comments and compliments for everyone, from the small teenager from Latvia to the lanky boy from a rural part of Russia.

Teaching, though, was a different story.

Yakov had him watch for a while at first, and then always kept a close eye on him when he was actually leading lessons. Sometimes he needed to step in when Victor got on too much of a roll with critique, or to correct something that had higher priority than whatever it was that Victor was focusing on, or to stop them both when the student was obviously getting too tired. None of them were going to ask to take a break when they were trying to impress Victor.

Victor was oblivious much of the time, but he wasn't stupid. After the third or so time that Yakov had to intervene with a tired skater, Yakov saw him suggesting breaks, or moving on to give another kid a mini lesson.

It seemed like every time they came off the ice, though, Yakov had something new to correct. Victor was yelling too much, or not giving the student enough time to make sure they had absorbed the information, or this or that. He was trying, but it wasn't his natural talent like skating and choreography were.

Still. By the end of the training camp, nobody had been permanently scarred, and Victor and Yakov's other skaters spent a while seeing the kids off. Even Yuri got roped into it, and though he complained about having to play nice with some other kids his age and younger, he acquiesced to selfies and ended up showing videos of his cat to a circle of girls. Everyone seemed happy when they left at the end of the day; a few would be back next week, joining other groups at the rink, and they might see the rest in upcoming competitions.

Victor invited himself and Makkachin over for dinner that night, like it was a celebration. He brought alcohol, something neither of them could identify, with a label in Japanese. When they opened it after dinner, it was slightly fruity and very, very sweet. Victor downed a cup in a couple of minutes.

"What do you think?" Victor asked.

"Of what? The training camp? Your teaching ability? Dinner? The alcohol?" He turned the bottle in his hands, trying to find the alcohol content or ingredients out of curiosity. There was no English on the label to tell him what this stuff was even made of, but there was a tiny printed number tucked into a corner. Eh, not that strong, though more than he'd expected. The sugar must have covered the taste.

"All of it? I liked what you made tonight. And the training camp was kind of fun! You sure yelled at me a lot, though. I didn't think I was doing that bad of a job."

Yakov let out a long, exaggerated sigh to make his own opinion on the matter clear. Victor grinned and poured himself more of the drink. "You have a long way to go if you want to go into coaching, Vitya. We haven't even talked about things like how to handle students at competitions."

"That can't be that hard. I've been with you to lots of them!"

"Is that what you think? Then tell me, what do you do when someone has stage fright?"

"Ah... let them sleep it off?" Yakov put his cup down so he could put his face in his hands. "Okay, okay! What do you do, then?"

"That depends so very, very much on the person," Yakov told his fingers. "On the cause of their anxiety, what calms them down. You have to change your approach and find what works for everyone."

Victor tucked himself closer to Yakov as they kept talking, sharing feedback and thoughts about the training camp. Normally, he would have been cuddling with his dog, but Makkachin had fallen asleep on a rug on the other end of the room, whuffling softly in her sleep. It was probably cute, for people who were into dogs.

When they ran out of things to talk about for the moment – critique for Victor, a little speculation on a couple of the more promising skaters in the camp – Yakov asked, "So? You enjoyed it?"

"It was different from skating. A bit frustrating," Victor admitted. "You want to shake some of them and have them just be able to do it right. Or when you tell them to do something and they go and do it the same way as before three times in a row. I see why you yell at us all the time! They were even trying to listen to me."

"Now imagine that for months on end, sometimes. Not everything is easy to correct. Some people might never succeed at a particular skill, no matter how hard they try. _Some people_ ," he said, giving Victor a hard look, "never listen to their coaches!"

Victor gave him a sweet expression in return. "I have no idea why they wouldn't!"

"Why, you—!" Victor poured him more of the sweet drink; Yakov took it and drank a few sips. He swore he could feel the sugar coating his teeth, but he was getting used to the taste. "Well, it's also exciting to watch them succeed. I saw you smiling when that little girl finally fixed that jump I saw you working on."

"It was fun to see her do it," Victor said. "I think I liked it. If I went into coaching, you'd teach me that, too, right? I kept trying to channel you. Since you're the best coach in the world." He ducked his head and smiled through his eyelashes.

"I would say yes without the flattery, you know. You think I'd unleash you on the vulnerable young skaters of Russia without proper guidance or training? If you skipped out and I saw you setting up a school elsewhere without anyone supervising, I'd be over there in a second to ask what the hell you were doing."

"Or maybe you just don't want to let me go," Victor teased, tilting his head down onto Yakov's shoulder. "You've been my coach for too long. You can't live without me."

"You're making it sound like you're the one who doesn't want to leave." He'd meant it as another piece of banter in their back-and-forth, but Victor's light look suddenly fell away. Damn. He must've hit closer to a sore spot than he'd intended to. "Either way, you can stay if you want to choreograph or coach or make it your mission to make sure I have company at least once a week, whatever it is you want to do."

Victor nodded and leaned forward to refill his cup, and they moved onto other talk, punctuated by moments of quiet. Eventually, they finished the bottle that Victor had brought, and he leaned back into Yakov's shoulder, his legs unfolded loosely down the rest of the couch. The hints of unhappiness disappeared, too, and as far as Yakov could tell through the muzziness starting to cloud his own head, the new smiles were genuine.

Yakov, fishing for a topic to break another silence, asked if he'd ever heard back from the doctors. "Mmmm. Nothing important," Victor said. "They said my... something looked kind of low? But not that low? Anyway, they gave me pills for it, but it's not that serious. It's fine. I guess it's all in my head after all."

"Still real," said Yakov, and at Victor's confused look, tried to clarify. "Your head is real, isn't it?"

Victor burst into laughter, collapsing against Yakov hard enough to push him into the arm of the couch and almost spilling into his lap. "My head is real! I hope so." He thumped his head on Yakov's chest, still shaking, and tried to regain his breath. Yakov didn't think it was that funny, but at least Victor was laughing.

"Are you feeling better, then?"

"Maybe a little? I dunno. It's hard." He didn't explain what was. "At least I have you to talk to about it."

He had Yakov, yes. Yakov would help him, as much as he could. Did he have anyone else? His dog wasn't a therapist. His friend Chris lived far away. Did he have others? He didn't seem close enough to Georgi to reveal all of this, and anyway they were competitors, and Mila and Yuri were young, and... and as for his family, the less said about them, the better.

"I didn't want to," Victor continued, looking up at him, his chin digging into Yakov's ribs. "Ah, but... here." He steered Yakov's hand onto his hair and closed his eyes. "I like it when you do that. 's nice."

And it was nice to touch. It reminded him of when Lilia had – no, this was not the time to think of her. So Yakov pet his hair until the silence, enjoyable at first, had stretched too long. Victor opened his eyes when he stopped, and Yakov couldn't help but let his hand slip down so he could run a thumb along Victor's cheekbone, underneath one of those eyes journalists always liked to mention. Intense eyes, soft eyes, pretty eyes, blue eyes. Those eyes were looking at him, now, half-closing as Victor turned his head into the touch, then re-opening as he met Yakov's gaze again.

A thought came into Yakov's mind, that maybe Victor wanted – no, no, that couldn't possibly be right. Couldn't. It was a bad idea either way. Shouldn't.

Except that the thought that had slipped into his head wouldn't go away as Victor kept looking at him, still half-sprawled on him, not pushing Yakov's hand off as his thumb swiped back and forth on Victor's smooth cheek. Of course, that didn't mean he wanted what Yakov was thinking of, he just liked touch and physical affection – but he was the one who'd kept pushing in, who had put Yakov's hand on his head, and when Yakov tried to move his hand away, Victor grabbed it before it got very far.

Could he...? Yakov had to be reading this wrong. Had to. They couldn't, because....

He touched Victor's cheek again. Watched him close his eyes, then open them as Yakov shifted himself up. If it had been anyone else, Yakov wouldn't be doubting himself; he knew that expression, didn't he? Yakov started to lean in, then paused, something reminding him that he shouldn't, that maybe he was wrong, that just because Victor looked like that, because he was handsome and liked touch didn't mean – but then Victor made the softest sound, his mouth parting, and so Yakov leaned in and kissed him.

Victor made another noise and leaned into it, not away, clutched at Yakov. It was Victor who pushed into a second kiss, a third, a longer fourth one. When his mouth opened under Yakov's, it tasted like sugar.

Yakov let Victor pull him forward, until they tipped over and went the other way on the couch, slow, Victor tugging him on top of him. The image of Victor under him made Yakov think – but before his thoughts could get in order, Victor murmured, "Please." He looped his arms around Yakov's neck and arched up, and the thoughts fled.

Victor sighed into the next kiss, hot, wet. How long had it been...? But Victor certainly wasn't Lilia, not with the noises he made, lacked the scent of her perfume when Yakov kissed his neck and felt him tilt into the touch. Like Victor could ever be mistaken for anyone else, even though he was Yakov's—

His skin was warm when he pushed one of Yakov's hands up the hem of his t-shirt. Warm, the muscles so solid. He made another of those soft sounds, pleasant on the ears, as Yakov's fingers brushed his skin. There was a hand in Yakov's hair, another fisted in the back of his shirt when Yakov kissed him again.

"Let's go to bed," said Yakov, because the couch wasn't uncomfortable, but the bed would be much more so, would have more room.

Victor nodded, cheeks flushed, took his hand as they got up and followed him down the hall. Turning the light on in the bedroom made Yakov pause again – there was a reason this was a bad idea – but then Victor distracted him by pulling him to the bedspread and kissing him. Victor reacted so much to every touch, moving his head for easier access when Yakov put his mouth to his neck, moaning when he put it to his chest, louder when Yakov moved down, between his legs.

Some time later, when the bedroom was dark again, Victor pressed his face to Yakov's chest. His breath should have been evening out, going deeper with sleep, but there was still something harsh to it. "I'm fine," he said when Yakov tried to pull him away to see what was wrong, his breath hot and damp on Yakov's skin. "I – please?"

Yakov didn't know what he was asking for. He stroked Victor's hair, passing his fingers slowly through the smooth strands, and that seemed to calm him enough for both of them to sleep.

~!~

In the morning, the bed beside him was cold. Yakov stared at the rumpled covers and could think of nothing except _fuck_.

He could remember everything, more or less. He hadn't been _that_ drunk. And yet he'd slept with his _student_. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with Victor, for not just going along with it, but pulling Yakov into it when he'd hesitated? Had he been even more drunk? Did – hell, did he think that it was some kind of twisted favor he needed to do, or something idiotic like that?

Yakov swore softly to himself and put his head in his hands, propped up on his elbows. And now Victor was gone, and Yakov had quite possibly just ruined his longest-running student-coach relationship – please let him not have hurt Victor, that was the last thing Victor needed in the middle of his slump. He didn't deserve it at any point in time, but especially not now.

Sitting around in bed feeling sorry and guilty about how spectacularly he'd fucked up last night wasn't going to fix anything. He couldn't explain himself to Victor, but at the very least he could try to apologize. Yakov dragged himself out, got dressed, opened the bedroom door.

Someone was in the kitchen. _Victor_ was in the kitchen, laughing at how Makkachin had flipped herself over on the floor next to a bowl that Victor had filled with her food, while something cooked on the stove. Yakov hovered in the doorway, unsure of what to say, unsure of why Victor was still here.

"Oh!" Victor exclaimed when he noticed him. "Good morning! I made pancakes. I couldn't find where you keep the jam, are you out?"

He opened his mouth, meaning to say – but he couldn't just issue an apology in response to that. "No, I'm not. Where were you looking for it? It's right here." He brushed past Victor and pulled out all three jars.

"You know, I swear I looked there! Must've missed it." Victor was all smiles and cheerfulness as he turned back to the stove. "These will be done in just a moment. I made tea, too. You can sit down."

Yakov took the jars to the table. He sat down. He stared at the tea, still steaming slightly. At the plates (Victor had pulled out the nicer ones). At Victor, humming lightly to himself as he flipped the last of the pancakes over.

Victor carried the plate over and sat down across from Yakov. He took a couple for himself, then slid one of the jam jars over before he looked up at Yakov. "Aren't you going to have one? You know my cooking isn't that bad."

It wasn't. The pancakes should have looked delicious. But with the twist in Yakov's stomach, almost painful, they looked about as appetizing as cardboard. "Vitya," he choked out through the thickness in his throat. "About last night."

The smile stayed on Victor's face. "What about last night?" Without looking, he fished a glob of jam out of the jar with his fork and dropped it on a pancake. "I liked it. Please don't say we shouldn't have."

"And why shouldn't I?" Yakov snapped. "You're my _student_. We shouldn't have! It was – extremely inappropriate—"

"I'm also twenty-six," Victor snapped back. "I think I'm old enough to know what I want."

Clearly not, Yakov wanted to say. Not if what he wanted was someone almost three times his age to take him to bed. "It doesn't matter if you wanted it! Not that I know _why_ – but either way, Vitya, it was unethical for me to kiss you, let alone anything further than that, so I shouldn't have, so I'm _sorry_."

Victor's mouth thinned to a line, his face otherwise frozen. Yakov couldn't stand to look at it. He dropped his head into his hand. Why couldn't Victor be reasonable for once? Accept that last night had been a mistake, even if one he'd enjoyed, and move on?

The other chair scraped on the tile. Yakov steeled himself for Victor to tell Makkachin that they were leaving, for the sound of his footsteps down the hall.

Instead, Victor pushed his way between Yakov and the table and dropped to his knees. Yakov got over his shock very quickly when Victor went for his belt.

The scuffle that ensued was confusing and undignified, with Victor trying to get Yakov to let him touch him, and Yakov cursing at him and trying to get him to stop without kicking him. Finally, he grabbed Victor's hair and jerked it away, cringing at Victor's sharp _ow!_ , but at least it got him to pause, eyes visibly watering.

Yakov let go and thumped his forehead against the edge of the table. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked, tired. His head ached slightly and it was too early to be trying to argue with Victor about anything, let alone this.

"Last night was good," Victor said. "I liked it. You were good to me. I don't regret it. I want you to touch me again and I want you to let me touch you back."

Yakov sighed. Victor glared at him, as though Yakov was being unfair instead of sensible. Forty years of coaching and Yakov had needed to ignore a couple of crushes, gently deflect subtle hints, but he'd never had a student throw themselves at him.

Well, Victor always had been good at firsts.

"Get off the floor. I know what your knees are like."

Victor got off the floor. He brushed his trousers off, then pulled his chair around so they were sitting next to each other and he could tuck himself against Yakov again. Yakov tried to edge away, but Victor grabbed his arm. "I don't care if you're too old for me or if we're not supposed to. I can keep a secret. Didn't you like it? I remember how you were saying my name. I thought you did."

He had. Damn him, he had. That wasn't the point. "Whether or not we like something doesn't make it less wrong."

"I don't even see how it's that wrong if I'm the one asking you. It's not like you're making me do anything." His voice suddenly turned more lost, pleading. "You know me. I wouldn't let you do anything to me I didn't want. You were good to me," he said again, pushing closer. "I know you didn't want me for the medals."

Yakov was already opening his mouth to refute Victor when the last sentence stopped him.

Victor never talked about friends, except Chris, who lived halfway across Europe. As for his rink mates, Georgi was taken, and Yakov suspected that he was straight as a line, though who knew, he didn't keep that close an eye on his love life. Mila and Yuri were too young for him, of course. He didn't interact much with people in other coaching groups at the rink. He hadn't mentioned having a boyfriend or anything like that in years. There were his competitors, some closer to his age, handsome, understanding of the life of a skater. Weren't there?

Surely Victor couldn't be so desperately lonely that he wanted this. Not bright, successful Victor.

Bright, successful Victor who was bored of his medals and trying so hard to find his inspiration again. Yakov's heart ached at the lines his mind was drawing. That couldn't be right.

"Vitya," he said, gentler, and felt Victor's hand on his arm tighten in response. "You don't have to sleep with me because you want company, or attention."

"What if I want all of them?" Victor asked, and then he took a breath and said, "You haven't said you don't want me."

Yakov squeezed his eyes shut.

Victor took his hand and put it on the inside of his knee, no, a little higher. Let go.

Yakov had never been much for lying. He was bad at it, and he'd never seen the use of it on most occasions; the truth had a way of making itself known, and lies usually seemed to make things worse. There were exceptions, certainly. He didn't think this was one of them. Victor wouldn't believe him. Of course he'd liked it last night, of course he'd enjoyed Victor skill at kissing, enjoyed feeling someone react to his touch again, the warmth of another body, _Victor's_ lovely body.

He didn't move his hand. He didn't open his eyes, either. They couldn't. But Victor sounded – Yakov didn't want to hurt him. Wasn't there some other way to make Victor happy?

Victor waited, tense. Yakov wondered why he'd kissed Victor last night and put them both into this mess. Only because Victor had looked like he wanted to be kissed. Possibly because a part of him had been lonely, perhaps, though that was a bad excuse if he'd ever heard one. There were other people out there his age, too, if not so easy on the eyes as Victor was.

He opened his eyes and removed his hand so he could turn to face Victor. "You know we shouldn't," he said. "You're my student, you've been my student for too long, surely there are other skaters, other people your age—"

"Please," said Victor, and when he kissed him, Yakov didn't stop him.

He should have. But he couldn't help himself, not with the way Victor wrapped his arms around him first – he'd always had this habit of hugging him when he truly needed something, help or reassurance. Not with how it felt, either, if he was being honest with himself.

When Victor went to rest his head against his shoulder, Yakov gently pushed him off. Not too far, but he – he shouldn't be encouraging this, and he needed a minute to think. A moment to get past how tempting Victor's touch was and back to rationality. "The food is getting cold," he said. Victor gave him a blank look, then glanced at the table.

"Oh," he said, and retrieved his food. He didn't move his seat back to its original place.

Yakov ate his breakfast in a daze, only tasting it halfway. His thoughts were a mess, flicking between Victor and last night and what the right thing to do here was. Victor fiddled with his fork after he was finished, until Yakov took it from him to start putting the dishes away. "Are you going home?"

"Do I have to?"

Yakov hesitated. He _should_ – but the expression Victor was wearing made him say, "You should at some point."

"Can we do something? It doesn't have to be sex. Cuddling?" His tone screamed _don't say no_.

He could have said no, regardless. He ought to have said no. Instead he shrugged, and after the dishes were dealt with, they ended up on the couch again, Makkachin snoozing on the floor next to them. Victor put on some movie and then crawled onto Yakov, so clearly longing for touch that Yakov didn't have the heart to push him away despite how he knew he should be stopping this. Now, before things got worse. Victor could live with being a bit upset because Yakov was being the sensible one yet again.

But then he melted into Yakov's chest, all the distress easing from his face and frame, and Yakov let him stay.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yakov Week (now backup week) day 4: bonding (now of the nsfw kind)
> 
> Thanks to a work project, the last three chapters will not be coming out at a such a breakneck pace, but I will try to get them finished and edited quickly. Enjoy this one, however :)

A day away from Victor helped Yakov put his head on straight again. Sleeping together had been a bad idea, but they could put it in the past, and he could make Victor stick to nothing but the normal kinds of touches they'd shared for so many years now, the kinds that were appropriate for a touchy-feeling student and his coach. He _could_. Or, knowing Victor, he could at least try, and he ought to.

He was thankful when their next lesson was the same as ever; Yakov yelled, Victor ignored half of it, they made progress, and Victor didn't try to touch him. He joked with Mila, he teased Yuri, he posted three photos in a row of Makkachin playing with a toy in a sunbeam during his lunch break, and he worked tirelessly on his free program.

Yakov didn't ask about the short.

Everything was back to normal for a day, two, and Yakov was thankful. Maybe Victor had thought it over himself and decided that he wasn't so needy that he had to throw himself at an old man. Or maybe he'd considered the possible consequences. ...that one was unlikely, but it was possible. Probably Yakov was doing all the thinking about that for the both of them, though.

Then Victor came up to the boards near the end of the last practice of the day. "I want to try this new recipe, but it makes too much for one person," he said. "You should come over tonight and help me eat it."

Yakov had an excuse on his lips. A comment about how poor of a line that was. But Victor reached forward with his fingers, tentatively grasping the sleeve of Yakov's coat, and his face was hopeful. The prepared words died before they made it out of Yakov's throat.

"I can come for dinner," he said.

He didn't object to the idea of a home-made meal he didn't have to cook himself, but they both knew that it wasn't going to be just dinner. Or at least, Victor wasn't going to let it be just dinner. Yakov was already preparing himself for another argument as they walked from the rink.

Victor did have a recipe prepared. While he cooked, Yakov took Makkachin out for him and watched her sniff at things as they walked, wishing that Victor could just let this go like he did with so many other things. Let it be a one-night thing, whatever he thought of what had happened. Yakov could live with that much.

Dinner was something with an Italian name that Yakov didn't quite catch, heavy on the vegetables. It was fine. Yakov didn't really care for the taste of it for reasons he couldn't pick apart, and Victor started frowning and scraping at it with his fork halfway through his plate. "Maybe I should've used a different recipe."

"You don't like it?"

"This tasted a lot better when I had it in Italy. Oh, well. Next time! Are we going anywhere interesting for the GPF and everything this year?"

"Sochi for the GPF. Somewhere in Japan for Worlds, I think. I don't remember for Euros. Don't you have a piece of the internet in your pocket right now?"

"But you were so much faster! Anyway, Sochi's boring, but at least I can bring Makkachin with me. Won't that be nice?" he called to her. "We can go on morning runs together somewhere different!"

She walked away from the toy she'd been nosing at to come receive Victor's attention. A normal scene from any other dinner at Victor's place, but this time there was a heaviness in Yakov's chest as he waited for the moment that Victor tried to make this something more. They couldn't. It didn't matter if Victor wanted to, or if Yakov had had difficulty keeping his mind off the feeling of holding someone last night when he lay alone in his bed. Maybe it was time to meet someone new, however one did that at his age.

They made it through dinner, despite Victor's dissatisfaction with the recipe. They didn't even make it out of the kitchen before Victor leaned in, clearly aiming for a kiss.

Yakov pushed him away. "Vitya. You know we can't. Stop it."

"You were fine with it the other day! I thought you wanted to." Why did he look so hurt?

"I already told you – you're not an idiot, I know you can understand this – it doesn't matter if you want to or I want to, it's a bad idea. It's a bad idea because it's wrong for me to sleep with a student, and it's a bad idea because you deserve someone your age, and it's a very, very bad idea because you understand what will happen if anyone ever finds out."

Victor grimaced. If anyone ever found out – Yakov's reputation would be gone. It was one thing for coaches and students who met as adults, even if Yakov still didn't quite approve, but he'd known Victor since was young (something he had been trying hard not to think about for the past couple of days), and there would be rumors. About Yakov and what horrible things he'd done, about Yuri, about Mila. Maybe even about Victor, about what he'd done to secure Yakov's coaching for those gold medals. Garbage, all of it, but certain journalists loved garbage, and the thought made Yakov's stomach turn.

"Then we'll be careful. You know I can be, I've managed to keep a private life. And maybe I don't mind if you're older."

"What?"

"Age means experience, and all that. From what I remember, you sure seemed experienced. You should refresh my memory."

Yakov gave him a look. For Victor, that had almost been subtle. By any other standard, not so much. "Do you ever listen to anything that I or even you yourself say?"

"You don't seem to be listening to what I'm saying about what I want," Victor grumbled, and for a moment they just frowned at each other.

Then Victor stepped forward and put his face in Yakov's neck. He didn't kiss it, or anything like that, or even throw his arms around him, though he did put his hands lightly on Yakov's sides. Yakov could feel his breath, hot, putting a pleasurable little shiver under his skin, the gentle brushing touch of his eyelashes as he blinked.

This time, Yakov couldn't blame alcohol for putting his hand on Victor's head instead of pushing him away. For giving in to the way that Victor looked at him, when he drew back just a few centimeters, for giving in and kissing him.

Victor made a surprised sound and pushed into it, pushed Yakov into the wall. He wanted experience, Yakov could show him. It wasn't difficult to gauge what Victor liked, not with the way he moaned when Yakov wound his fingers in his hair and pressed his tongue into his mouth.

This was different. Yakov had only ever kissed people shorter than him, or around the same height, but Victor had outgrown him a decade ago. The angle Yakov had to set his neck at was new, but the rest was very, very familiar, in a general way. How to slide a hand down Victor's neck and run a thumb over his jaw, taking a moment to breathe and kiss his jaw and cheeks instead, feeling him shiver when Yakov brushed his ear. The feeling of Victor seeking his touch, running his hands down Yakov's shoulders, the sounds he made, little whimpering ones, when Yakov did something right.

They shouldn't. But the noises Victor was making, the way he pulled himself closer and closer to Yakov, made him forget about that for a moment.

Victor finally broke away for long enough to take Yakov's hands and pull him into the living room. Not the bedroom, which wasn't much further away, but the couch, still lit by the daylight through Victor's curtains. Yakov let Victor push him down to it, though he paused to adjust his spine, and then he put his hands on Victor's waist when he joined him for more kisses.

Victor seemed so responsive to everything – gasping when Yakov drew a cautious hand up the back of his shirt, shivering when Yakov kissed his neck, tugging at his hair and moving on top of him. So it was noticeable when the responses start to slow down, even though he could feel Victor was hard against him. Whatever the reason, Yakov slowed down the touches and kisses, too.

"What?" Victor asked, when the pace had abated to something lazy, and Yakov thought, actually rather comfortable.

"What do you mean, what?"

"Did you want to stop?"

"I thought you wanted to stop." The confused look Victor gave him in return had Yakov sighing and pushing himself into a half-sitting position against the arm of the couch. "Vitya, what is you want from this?"

Victor smiled. "I don't know. We can do what you want."

Yakov raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "That doesn't answer my question. What do you want from this – from me, Vitya? Sex? Companionship? Your lost inspiration?"

Victor laughed, and it made his smile easier. "If you could fuck my inspiration back into me, that would be _amazing_. And I'd be cursing myself for not seducing you years ago."

"Don't count on it. I can't fix your problems like magic."

"I know." Victor fit them back together, legs winding with Yakov's, chin digging into his ribs. "I just like it when you touch me like this. You think too much. Does it have to be more than that?"

"I suppose not," Yakov granted after a moment. "Did you want to stop, though?"

"Not really." Victor fidgeted, his eyes going to the side. "I guess it would be nice if we – it feels weird to say 'didn't rush into things' when we already did more than this. If it wasn't just sex."

Yakov nodded. Victor kissed him again, and again, and again, slow ones and hotter ones, and if Victor wanted to make out on his couch all afternoon, fine.

If, much later, back in his own bed, Yakov blurred the memories of the endless kisses, and their night together, to touch himself to, that was fine in its own way. Even if he hated himself for it after he'd come all over his hand to the thought of Victor's voice when he kept whispering his name, the way he'd clung, the way he kissed.

He shouldn't be fantasizing about his student. He shouldn't have – this whole evening shouldn't have happened. Victor was senseless enough on his own, why was he going along with it? Was he that desperate for touch, too, just because it had been a while? He had thought he was doing fine without it.

~!~

Early next week, Yakov was late to one of their ice sessions, after one of the other coaches had pulled him aside to ask for advice on dealing with a difficult skater. When he got there, Yuri had to be yelled at to get back to work, while Mila was throwing herself into axels – this year she wanted to bring out the triple she'd been working so hard on – and Georgi was practicing diligently, his face serious.

Of course Victor was working hard, as well. He was doing something with his arms, skating steps – oh. Had he come up with a new short program? That was fast, for all his worrying about it.

(Maybe he really had – no, no, that was a ridiculous thing to think. And besides, they hadn't fucked, exactly. So even Victor wouldn't – this was a stupid line of thought.)

Yakov didn't see the program in its entirety until the next day. Mila came to the boards next to Yakov to watch and offered to film, while Yuri feigned disinterest and Georgi merely slowed down.

Yakov's eyebrows rose as soon as the music switched on. This was familiar music. Very, very familiar, even more so than _Carmen_ or _The King and the Skater_ , and it was old, and classical, and most importantly, it was his. This had been his long program music decades ago, during his last Olympics.

Victor had, of course, come up with his own choreography for it, and re-cut the music to fit the modern constraints. But there were references, catching his foot on a spin, striking a classic ballet pose just like Yakov had for a moment before he started in on the step sequence.

Also, it was a nice program. Much better than what he'd shown before, and not depressing at all.

"That was different," Mila observed when it was finished and Victor came over to them. "Still kinda empty, but I guess it always is the first time. Isn't that coach's old music?"

"You recognized it?"

"It was! You should do a proper Biellmann spin like he used to."

"I think I'd have to stretch a lot more before I could them very well again." Victor reached back as he leaned forward, caught his blade in both hands, and winced as he bent his back up along with his leg. He did manage to hit a position that almost looked nice before letting go and rubbing at the small of his back. He was no longer as flexible as when he was a teenager being taught by Lilia.

"It's okay," said Mila. "Mine's not that good, either. We should be back stretching buddies."

Victor smiled at the suggestion, then bent down to poke Yakov, who had put his elbow on the boards and his face in his hand. "I thought you would like it! It's a _tribute_. Was it bad?"

"It's not bad, it's – really, Vitya. Really?"

"He's just overwhelmed," Mila assured Victor. "Nobody usually skates tributes to him, so he must be sitting there in shock at how lovely of a student you're being, for once!"

"I'm sitting here in shock at how much time you're wasting. Give Vitya his phone back and get to practicing."

Mila pouted, but did so. "Did you like it?" asked Victor, turning the phone and playing the video. Yakov pushed himself up so he could watch around Victor's shoulder.

It was imperfect, rough, and as Mila said, still empty – but no, it wasn't bad. Not at all.

"It's different," said Yakov, after they had watched it again. "It's very strange to watch you skate to this. But it's not a bad start."

Victor beamed, and skated off quite happily. Later, in Yakov's office, he was already tearing it apart almost as thoroughly as he had that old video of himself, though Yakov did notice him picking out the occasional bit he especially liked. "I couldn't sleep and I was watching these old videos of you on my phone," he said, tapping the notes with his pen. "And I thought it might be fun to try skating it, even though it was so different from what we do nowadays, and then I thought it might be even more fun to update it, and then I had my program. It all went together in my head like it usually does. I've never done a program dedicated to someone before! I might do my exhibition for Makkachin, and then at Sochi – at Rostelecom if I get it, too – I could actually bring her! Wouldn't that be fun?"

That – well, that wasn't the most ridiculous thing that Yakov would have seen at a gala, but it was up there. But if it made Victor happy, and if the organizers allowed it, then there was no actual reason to object. "Are you at least going to keep your old layout this year?"

"Hm." Victor tapped the notes again. There wasn't much room to upgrade it, with his quad flip already in there. "I could make the triple in my combination into a loop. I don't think anyone's done that combination before in competition."

The different in base value was small. Not worth it, in Yakov's opinion, but since when had Victor ever heeded that? "Or you could keep the one you can do with a higher GOE because it's easier and you've already trained it reliably for years."

And so yet another variation of the years-long argument started. By the end of it, Yakov thought he might have won the round, but it was probably only until Victor tried out the new combination in practice to see if he could land it. It was impossible to stop him from trying new things simply for the sake of it.

When they were finished talking, Victor looked satisfied, this time. Probably happy to finally have something to skate to. "Thanks for the inspiration, coach," he said, draping his arms across Yakov's shoulders and rubbing his head against the side of Yakov's. That was fine.

The way that Victor tried to kiss him a moment later was not. Yakov felt an instinctual panic leap in his chest when he realized what Victor was aiming for, and he shoved him off. "Not at the rink!"

Victor righted himself in his chair and pouted. "I locked the door! Nobody else is in here. What's the problem?"

"If you want to keep doing this—" (they shouldn't be doing this, this was such a bad idea, why was he still going along with this, he should cut Victor off gently while he still could) "—then not at the rink. Not ever. We do not act as anything other than professionals here. It only takes you forgetting to lock the door once, or us not realizing we are alone, and one person who is willing to run straight to the media—" (and everyone had cameras in their pockets now, anyone could prove it) "—and things are over. Do you want that?"

"No, but, it _is_ locked, I even checked it."

"And maybe some of us prefer to separate our private and our professional lives."

"Oh," said Victor, and that was what got him looking a little thoughtful, for some reason. "You're so responsible, Yakov! If I didn't know better, I would think you never relaxed at all." He leaned forward again and took Yakov's hand. "Okay, not at the rink or at competitions or whatever. But you should come over tonight."

Yakov went over to his apartment, instead of telling Victor no. Kissed all the breath out of him in his bed. Watched Victor's pink face as he slowly slid his hand down Yakov's trousers.

Victor's hand, the fingers smoother and longer than his, warmed between their bodies, felt so much better than his own. And Victor's mouth was there to kiss, and Victor moaned nicely when Yakov wrapped an arm around him and thrust up into his grip. Yakov had missed this, holding someone and feeling pleasure from their touch, and Victor was only encouraging.

When he came in Victor's hand, it was the best orgasm he could remember in a long time.

He thought about sucking Victor off in return – his memories of their first night were a bit hazy from the alcohol, but he could certainly remember the way Victor had cried out, how hard his thighs had pressed on either side of him. But Victor was clinging and rubbing against his leg, so Yakov didn't bother trying to disentangle them. He kept one arm around Victor and moved the other down and under his clothes.

Victor cried out almost as loudly this time, too. His eyes fluttered, and Yakov could feel him panting as he pressed kisses to Victor's neck. Victor held on to him, his fingers as strong as the rest of him, and when he came, he bent to bury his face against Yakov and made tiny, tiny noises like Yakov had never heard from him before.

Yakov let himself not think, for a while, as he held Victor and watched the flush fade from his pale cheeks, listened to his breath even out back to normal. He put his hand on Victor's neck and found his pulse by accident, slow and healthy.

On the way back home, walking the streets that seemed oddly quiet for how well they were lit (at this time of year, even twilight was still hours off and never really became night), he told himself yet again that they shouldn't be doing this. Getting involved with Victor, even secretly, was going to be nothing but messy, and he shouldn't.

But he could also recognize a pattern when he saw one, and he knew he wasn't going to say no the next time Victor asked him over. Because he missed touch and Victor was there and giving it so freely, or because Victor had smiled softly at him in the afterglow and looked content, or – Yakov didn't know.

~!~

The next week at the rink was a headache – Yuri liked one of his programs but not the other, and in the end the choreographer had to re-do it with new music before he would skate it. Georgi had a scary fall that had Yakov helping him ice his knee and quietly worrying, though in the end it turned out to be nothing serious and he only needed to take it easy on the jumps for a short while. Almost immediately after, Mila tripped coming out of a spin and slid right into Victor's path, and he almost collided with some spacey junior skater while trying to swerve away from her. It could have been a nasty pile-up if anything had gone even slightly more wrong.

Georgi pronounced it a cursed week. Mila said that it was good to get the bad luck out of the way now. "Otherwise this would all be happening at some competition, when it actually matters," she said, flipping her hair away from her shoulder in the middle of a stretch.

"That's not how it works," Yakov snapped. "I want all of you to be careful. Now keep stretching, I have some children to lecture about watching out for other skaters."

When he came back, Mila and Victor were doing back stretches as they talked, while Yuri was casually sinking into a pose that hurt to look at. If he could keep some of the bendiness through puberty, good for him. Georgi switched from his good leg to his banged-up one, but he was being careful, like Yakov had taught him. Georgi had always been better at babying injuries than Victor had, and he had learned better about being patient with his body; there was a reason that he, too, was one of the top men of Russia at twenty-six, and it wasn't just his artistry.

Victor sent him a text on Saturday, early afternoon, asking if he wanted to come over later. Yakov re-read it ten times, knowing what he ought to say, and instead slowly typed out a reply saying he would be there in the evening.

When he got there, Victor actually had a few questions first, pulling up Yakov's old videos on his laptop. Who on Earth had uploaded them to TubeTube? Did anyone want to watch them, except maybe his relatives?

The hit counts were in the thousands. Not nearly at Victor's level, of course, but surprisingly high for such old programs, Yakov thought.

They were almost embarrassing to watch now, in some ways. Yakov had thought himself a relatively accomplished jumper with a few triples and a solid double axel, and this was one of the few programs where he'd hit his artistic stride and been rewarded for it by the judges. It was simple by today's standards, but at the same time, simplicity could be nice when it was done with elegance. The Yakov on the screen was younger, thinner, more flexible – more elegant, yes, and watching the video for the first time in many years, Yakov could see where Victor had tried to capture that. Hopefully the judges would reward him, as well.

Once he'd answered Victor's questions, Victor shut his laptop and leaned into Yakov's side. Fingers curled over his knee, and Yakov touched Victor's chin as Victor leaned down to kiss him.

Yakov ended up on his back on Victor's comfortable couch. Victor seemed to love kissing, going back to Yakov's mouth again and again. But this time he also went for the buttons on Yakov's shirt, unlike the other times, sliding them open one by one.

He tried not to feel self-conscious about the difference between their bodies. He wasn't – well, he'd never been a skinny little thing when he was younger, but though he still exercised and was strong for his age, he wasn't a young athlete anymore. His muscles didn't stand out like Victor's did, and his waist wasn't slim like his, either.

If Victor minded, though, he didn't show it. He drew his hands down Yakov's skin as he revealed it, his fingers chilly and inquisitive. When his exploration slowed, Yakov took one hand and guided it back up to places where he knew from long experience that he liked touch.

Victor obliged, and also pressed up for more kisses, sighing when Yakov ran a hand through his hair. Eventually, he sat back, straddling Yakov's hips. It was certainly a sight, except for the detail of him having to push his bangs out of his eyes so he could look down at Yakov. He was even more of a sight when he shrugged off his shirt, and his face flushed when Yakov reached up to trace the lines of his hard-earned muscles from his waist up to his collar.

"Ah," he breathed, squirming, which rubbed at Yakov through all their layers of clothes, which felt very good. His next wriggle was more of a deliberate rock, and then he put his hands on Yakov's hips and did it again. Yakov found his hands going to Victor's waist, trying to push him down for more friction. "Does that feel good?"

"What do you think?" He rolled his hips up against Victor this time and had to close his eyes for a moment at how it felt.

"It's hard to tell from your face sometimes," Victor laughed. "You're too serious-looking! And you don't make much noise."

"Mm."

"See, there you go." His breath hitched as they rocked together again. "Do you – ah – Yakov, do you want to fuck me? Maybe not tonight, but do you want to?"

"Is that what you want me to do?" He didn't have the most vivid of imaginations, but the thought – maybe in a similar position to this, Victor flushing like that and rocking not against him but  _on_ him – made his cock jump in the constrained space of his trousers.

"You seemed like you want to. I think I would like it." He was starting to pant, grinding down against Yakov with a hand resting in front of him so he could rock into his arm, too.

"Do you have any condoms, or should I bring some next time?"

Victor blinked at him. "I might have some. Do we really need them? I don't have anything, so if you don't, then...."

"What kind of example do you think I set?" Yakov groused. (A bad one, considering what they were doing, but—) "I prefer to think about your health."

"You sound like Chris," Victor groaned, stopping his rocking to comb a hand through his hair. "Once, at a competition, some shy little ice dancers came up to ask him some things – I'm sure you hear the rumors, too – and he had a whole spiel. I think he even pulled some condoms out of his pocket for them right then and there. The Swiss federation probably has him doing sex ed for their juniors."

Yakov gave him a look. Victor gave him an apologetic grin, then clambered off him.

His bedroom was warmer. Darker, too, with his summer curtains closed fast against the daylight still coming through the window. He paused to dig through his bedside table and triumphantly pulled out a box of condoms; Yakov took it from him, squinted at the label, and said, "They're expired."

Victor sighed and tossed them toward the trash can, paying no mind when the box hit the floor almost two meters away from it. "Then not tonight? Are you also going to insist on— "

Yakov interrupted him with a kiss, long, deep, and Victor moaned into it, hands flying up to his shoulders, all complaints apparently forgotten.

They stripped each other. Even though he knew that he shouldn't be doing it, Yakov enjoyed running his hands up Victor's calves, wrapping his fingers around Victor's strong thighs. Victor was smiling at him when he glanced up, but Yakov heard his head hit the pillow when he reached for Victor's cock, stroked it.

He groaned, low and deep, when Yakov took most of it in his mouth in one smooth motion. Unlike the rest of Victor, there was nothing especially notable about it – not the length or the girth or anything – except how sucking on it made Victor moan again and claw at his pillow. It made his thighs clamp around Yakov's head, too, ankles crossing over him as Yakov steadily moved his head and tongue.

He'd always enjoyed making someone feel pleasure, and Victor seemed easy to please. His back arched when Yakov ran his tongue over the head; as he got closer, he went from scrabbling at his pillow to putting one hand on Yakov's head, not trying to control him or press him down, just touching. Not unpleasant, and neither were the legs boxing him in, trembling.

And the noises Victor made! Little moans, stifled gasps, the occasional  _yes_ – he wasn't quiet at all, though his volume never got that loud. Yakov had, of course, never heard his voice make such sounds before they'd started these trysts, and they sounded good when they came from him. He swore he could feel himself getting harder just from hearing them.

"I, I'm," Victor gasped before long. Not very fond of the taste of come, Yakov eased himself off of Victor's cock, pushed his thighs apart, and leaned back up. Victor was breathing hard, his eyes dark and unfocused. He had the fingers of the hand that wasn't touching Yakov half-curled into his mouth; Yakov ignored them and kissed him without moving them away. Kissed him and started to stroke him, and this time he could feel the moan as well as hear it.

Victor's arms went around him, his body arched into him, and then he was shaking, eyes fluttering, not pulling away from the kiss but no longer participating in it. Yakov gave him a little room to breathe as the orgasm finished sweeping over him, but didn't let go until he'd gone still.

Victor was quiet, relaxed, as Yakov reached for the tissues on the bedside table to clean him up. "Wow," he murmured. He was smiling when Yakov looked back at his face.

Yakov let Victor wrap him in another hug. He expected him to snake a hand between them to touch, perhaps, or he could grind against Victor to get off, he wasn't fussy. But to his surprise, after Victor had held him for a long few moments, he pushed him over and slid down his body. He spared Yakov's face a glance, pushed his bangs aside again, and went straight into things by giving Yakov's cock a long, wet lick.

His fingers were in Victor's hair before he realized that he was reaching for it.

Victor didn't hesitate in taking him in his mouth, and oh, this was nothing like his hand in his lonely bed at all. It was hot and wet, and Yakov moaned, fingers tightening before he forced them to relax. Victor adjusted the angle of his body and drew his head back, pushed it further down Yakov's cock. Yakov watched through eyes he couldn't keep all the way open because Victor's mouth felt so good.

He was probably a terrible person for enjoying how this looked so much: Victor concentrating on giving him pleasure, most of Yakov's cock in his mouth, fingers wrapped around the base. If a half-dressed Victor in his lap was a sight, this was even more so, one of the best things he'd seen in years. Yakov let out a groan when he did something wonderful with his tongue and had to give up on fighting with his eyes to watch because he couldn't, anymore.

Yakov had to keep making his fingers relax in Victor's hair, but he couldn't let go, either, and the other hand twisted in the sheets. There was heat, hot pleasure, in his stomach, in his cock, growing with every movement of Victor's head. And Victor just kept going, adjusting his grip, sucking sometimes a little too hard, until Yakov realized that he was close and tried to pull him off.

Victor only went so far. "You can come in my mouth if you want," he said. Yakov, feeling dazed by the pleasure, wasn't sure he meant it until Victor smiled and asked, "Do you care if I spit or swallow?"

Fingers brushing against Victor's cheek, Yakov froze. Because – he had things that he liked, yes. But no matter how close he was to the edge, he didn't think he could ask that of Victor. Even if they were already so far beyond ethics at this point, somehow it seemed even more wrong to admit that yes, the thought of Victor swallowing his come was something that pushed him a little closer to his peak.

He touched Victor's face. He wanted - but it was difficult to say that he didn't care, either. A lie.

"I don't want to make you do anything," he said, the words coming out rough.

"It's okay," Victor said, still smiling. Still with his fingers wrapped around Yakov. "I want to make you feel good, too. What do you want me to do?"

Yakov closed his eyes. Took one breath, two, three. "Swallowing," he said, forcing the word out.

"Sure," Victor said. He laid there for a moment more as Yakov slid his fingers back into his hair. His warm breath on Yakov's cock, teasing, was driving him a little crazy, until Victor replaced it with his mouth again.

In a moment, Yakov found himself struggling not to pull on Victor's hair, rocking up into his mouth, and Victor let him, somehow swallowed more of Yakov's cock. He brought him so close, so, so close, everything concentrated on what Victor was doing to him, his body so hot. Victor moaned, lightly, put a hand on Yakov's in his hair, holding it, and he did something, Yakov wasn't sure what. There, that was it, like that, maybe he even said it.

Yakov came with a groan, body shuddering. He could feel Victor clambering back up, and when he forced his eyes open, saw that he had his hand in front of his mouth. Victor made a little show of swallowing, and seeing that made him swear softly and added a bit of thrill to the aftershocks.

It was a scene that Yakov wasn't going to forget soon. Probably one that he was going to revisit. He could feel bad about it later.

Victor tucked his head beneath Yakov's chin. Yakov had always liked this part, too, coming down together, holding someone, feeling them breathe, their warmth. Victor wasn't so soft to hold, but he snuggled right up against Yakov, skin-to-skin everywhere, and Yakov stroked his back, mind blank.

At some point, Victor did get up to clean up a little and crack open the door, but before Yakov could rouse himself from the bed, Victor was back in it again. He moved right into his space, and he relaxed so easily when Yakov wrapped an arm over him. Once Victor was done cuddling up to him, he sighed, soundless, into Yakov's neck.

Makkachin came to join them, curled on their feet. Yakov thought about going home. A short walk through a warm night. He just had to get out from under the covers, first, away from the warm little cocoon he and Victor had formed.

"Stay?" Victor murmured.

Yakov couldn't even think of a good argument not to, except that he hadn't brought a change of clothes. He could live for a few minutes on the way home. Staying would mean that he could wake up to someone again, that he could keep holding Victor, that Victor would remain contented like this. After what they'd just done, Yakov couldn't be bothered about sharing a bed with him for a night.

"Good night."

He felt Victor smile against his neck and press a light kiss to it. "Good night."

In the morning, he wasn't so sure it had been a good idea, but Victor smiled at him, lit by some light sneaking through the curtain, and kissed him slowly, and Yakov couldn't tell himself that it wasn't a lovely way to wake up, that Victor didn't look happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [There doesn't seem to be a rule about not bringing your dog to a gala](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TuGYFM_ytFE); ever since someone linked this, I've always thought that Victor _would_.


	5. Chapter 5

Grand Prix assignments came out, a little later than usual, while Victor was away from the rink for a few days, doing some kind of summer PR work – interviews or magazine shoots or whatever it was this time. Yakov was happy with the assignments; Georgi had a good shot at gold at his first one, and while the second would be more competitive, Yakov had faith in him. He and Victor didn't share any events, of course – Victor had Rostelecom this year, though Georgi had gotten it last year – so there would be a lot of flying, but at least Mila had one of Georgi's events, and also the one in France like Victor.

The first of Victor's GP events would conflict with one of the domestic competitions Yakov had been planning on taking Yuri to. Yakov sighed as he stared at his calendar. Well, Victor could handle himself much better than Yuri could; Yuri paid even less attention to Yakov's assistant coaches than he did to Yakov, while Victor was an adult and very experienced at competition. This wasn't the first time a conflict had happened, of course, but Yakov always liked to be there with all of his skaters, when he could.

But he couldn't be in France and Russia at the same time, and Yuri needed someone who knew how to deal with him, someone who would make sure he wouldn't try any surprise quads just because he would get more points for them. Yuri did not need those extra points to win. The judges adored him – he wouldn't have to worry about getting good PCS, as long as he did remotely well, and for all of Yuri's complaining about practice, competition fired him up. He would probably deliver.

So Yuri needed Yakov to be there more than Victor did.

This wasn't the first time this had happened. Yakov didn't know why he was feeling abnormal about it as he re-read the entries in the calendar. Maybe because of the fact that he and Victor were sleeping together, now, and it seemed odd to leave him alone in favor of another skater. But that was the way things were; as their coach, there was a clear choice to make, so Yakov wrote some emails and put it out of his head.

He was getting used to the texts from Victor, though he was still slow to answer them. _Can we come over?_ this one asked. A photo of Makkachin was attached, as if to make sure that Yakov knew who 'we' was.

 _In an hour_ , Yakov wrote back after a few minutes. He hadn't eaten dinner yet, and he had another email to write.

An hour later, almost on the dot, Victor showed up. He was all smiles at first, but when he pulled Yakov into cuddling on the couch, he suddenly looked much more tired.

"How did the... whatever it is you were doing today. How was it?"

"It was fine. Everyone was nice. I got paid. They said the photos turned out very well. They want to do a feature on you and everyone in our group in the future, so you'll probably get an email soon."

Yakov had already seen it, though not replied yet. "We have a film crew showing up for another documentary next month, too." Yakov didn't know why they always seemed to find the training so fascinating – little Yuri bending himself into ballet poses was interesting enough, he supposed, and perhaps Mila's triple axel training, but the rest of it? Maybe he was simply too immersed to appreciate it. Anyway, money changed hands, the fans racked up the views on subtitled videos online, and it didn't interrupt their training too much.

"Busy, busy. And Zhora's doing even more shows, isn't he? Lucky him." Victor yawned and fit his head against Yakov's shoulder.

"Did you have to get up early, or is getting your photo taken all day that tiring?"

"You know how it is. Sit here, like that, smile, smile, smile. Answer boring questions. Just another model for them." He sighed, relaxing further into Yakov's hold. "It feels strange, after a while."

Yakov adjusted their position and wrapped his arms further around Victor. He wasn't sure what to say to that, but the touch seemed to help, and it was comfortable. So comfortable that he was tempted to start falling asleep himself like this.

And both of their backs would be killing them in the morning if they did that. "Did you want to sleep over?" he asked, realizing as he said the words that it was the first time he'd asked. Before, it had been requests from Victor, or simply falling asleep in bed after they'd done more exciting things than this.

Victor nodded against his chest, and it was only with reluctance that he eventually let Yakov sit them up again. When they later went to bed, he fell asleep right away, holding on to Makkachin like she was a stuffed animal or a pillow, feet tangled with Yakov's. Yakov stayed awake a little longer, watching Victor's relaxed face, thinking of how easily he had melted into his arms earlier.

In the morning, he found Victor puzzling over his coffeemaker. "It's simpler than yours," Yakov pointed out as he showed him how to use it. "See, you pour the water here, the coffee goes here, and there's one button to push. One!"

"Clearly I need to get you a better one for your birthday or something. Or as a present for being such a good coach!"

"I don't need a new one, and I don't need a gift for doing my job. Save your money."

"Oh, well, I guess I've given you lots of gold medals already. But surely you want something for your birthday? I can't get you flowers, you'll think I'm retiring."

Yakov rolled his eyes and pointedly looked around his kitchen. There was nothing he needed, and he had plenty of income to purchase anything that he did lack. That didn't deter Victor's thinking face, of course.

A couple of years ago, he and the others had posted a sappy video in dedication to him. Georgi had clearly done the editing, and Yuri had probably been forced to participate, if only by retwittering it and maybe secretly recording some of the footage of Yakov coaching. (If Yakov had felt some fondness stir in his heart when they showed it to him, that was for him to know.)

"Don't you have a morning run to go on?"

Victor did. When he came back, it was rather nice to eat breakfast together, this time with no argument, quietly looking out the window with Victor pressing their feet to each other under the table. Yakov hadn't had a lot of breakfast company over the past few years, except at competitions, which were always so busy. Nothing like this at home.

~!~

When Yakov woke up with a sore throat one morning, he was initially grumpy that he had to take the day off. It wasn't the end of the world – it wasn't like there was a competition right around the corner. But he liked his work, despite the drama inherent to his skaters, and though he trusted the other coaches his students worked with, it was hard to let go of managing them entirely over nothing but a cold.

But he wasn't going to be able to make himself heard like this – he tried, talking to himself as he stirred some breakfast porridge, but even that had him wincing. He might as well rest and not infect everyone else. Victor, Georgi, and Mila responded to the news with a hail of sad emojis and emoticons. He would see how much they professed to miss him in a few days.

It might be nice to get a little rest and quiet, though. He could answer emails in peace, and when he needed to stretch, he cleaned his apartment, listening to old music on the radio. He was feeling less well by the evening, so he took something for it and told himself it was a good thing that he hadn't been on his feet and yelling himself hoarse all day.

He had settled in on the couch when there was a knock on the door. No messages on his phone, but Victor was smiling at him when he opened it. "What is it?" Yakov asked. He'd been away for _one day_ – if things were already going poorly, if this was a repeat of the night that Victor had shown up in the rain—

"I came to make sure you were feeling okay! Have you eaten dinner yet? I can make something for you."

"...Vitya, it's a cold." Victor continued to smile at him. "I can take care of myself."

"You need to relax and get better," Victor pronounced. "Here, I brought Makkachin. I read that petting dogs helps your blood pressure." He beamed; Yakov sighed and gave up.

"Just try not to catch it," he said, stepping back to let Victor (and, yes, his dog) in to the apartment. "Wash your hands before you eat, and don't sit too close."

He let Victor make dinner while he sat around and pet his dog. She was always sweet, despite her size, and when she eventually wandered off, Yakov watched her, but she didn't make too much trouble, just sniffed at things.

Victor made soup that tasted more of the ginger he'd put in than vegetables, like he was hoping that the added spice would help burn the cold out of Yakov. Yakov knew better than to trust home remedies, but... the soup wasn't bad, at least. Very warming.

Afterward, Victor insisted on getting him blankets. Watching him pour an absurd amount of honey into a cup of tea, Yakov said, "It's a sore throat. It will probably be gone by tomorrow. You don't need to fuss so much. Did something happen at the rink?"

"Not really. Yura got kind of snippy with the other coaches, but then Mila cowed him into being less rude and made him apologize. She's pretty scary! I think the aggressive programs she has this year are going to really suit her. She got so into them today that she actually tripped on some basic stroking because she was trying too hard." Victor kept chattering away about the day's events while he added a shot of vodka to the tea (also wasn't going to help the sore throat; Yakov wasn't complaining, though) and stirred vigorously.

He quieted down afterward, sat in the chair with his own tea, murmuring to Makkachin and then playing on his phone. It was strange to simply be in a room together like this, not talking or even touching.

No. Not strange. They'd had many scenes like this, when Victor was younger and staying with them, Lilia reading a book or watching the television with Yakov, Victor doing his homework or cuddling with Makkachin or reading a book of his own.

Things had been different, then. Better, worse, Yakov didn't think it was either – but different.

Eventually, he pointed out that it was getting late. "Are you really going to make me go?" Victor whined at him.

"I'm not having you catch this."

"Fine, fine. Makkachin, say good-bye to him for me, okay?"

Yakov didn't know how she knew to do what she did next: she bounded over, put her front paws in his lap, and licked his face before he could dodge her, then bounded off while he was still wiping his face off in disgust. Victor laughed and hugged her.

"Out," Yakov grumbled, and still laughing, Victor saw himself out.

Victor came over the next day. And the next, and thankfully by the day after that, Yakov's throat was well enough to return to the rink. Summer colds were annoying; Victor was possibly even more annoying. Insisting on making food for him, making cups of tea as fast as Yakov drank them, asking several times an evening if he needed another blanket or if Victor should go buy him anything or when did he need to take more medicine.

That was how Victor was, though. He didn't always notice when people were sick, but once he did, he liked to fuss and take care of them. At least, he'd been like that with them when he was younger, suddenly taking over the kitchen and hovering at their bedside. Lilia had taken it better than Yakov ever had.

"Are you feeling okay?" Victor asked at the rink, peering at him.

"I'm fine. Stop worrying about me – it was a cold, I'm not about to drop dead. Let's start with your short program." He was a little tired, but nothing that he couldn't deal with.

It was good to be back at the rink, working, watching his skaters glide in front of the familiar windows, directing them. Mila, predictably, groaned about him being such a taskmaster now that he was back. Victor brought him water at the end of their ice session.

"What's this?" He turned the bottle around in his hands; surely Victor was the one who should be drinking it.

"Your voice is still a bit hoarse. You need to drink plenty of fluids to finish getting better, right?"

Yakov glanced up at him. He could tell that Victor was being fully earnest. "How many times will I have to tell you that some of us prefer to be allowed to recover in solitude and silence?" he sighed, and then he cracked open the water bottle and took a drink anyway.

"You always fuss over me when something happens," Victor pointed out, leaning on the boards, and Yakov reminding him that he was the one who _liked_ it didn't change his smile a bit.

Next week, when he was fully healthy, he took one of Victor's invitations. Sat next to him, instead of merely being in the room with him. Kissed him, hard and deep, until Victor was whimpering and scrabbling at his back, rocking up into him, his hair a mess and his cheeks blotched. Enjoyed the sight and the way Victor reached for him, and tried not to think too hard about it.

~!~

Slowly and quickly, the weeks went by. Mila was consistently nailing her opening triple axel in her free program, and she was over the moon about it; so was Yakov. Georgi went from simply pouring his emotions over the ice to remembering that he was supposed to land his jumps, too. Victor re-worked his programs several times, changing his mind about the layout, where this or that move should be. Yuri had a brief spat with his costume designer, and once he saw the proposed designs and remembered that Yuri was _fourteen_ , Yakov was on his side.

In short, as the twilight in the late hours slowly started to deepen, they were all getting more and more ready for the season ahead. Barring anything unfortunate happening, Yakov could confidently predict medals for them.

Yuri's season would start sooner than the rest, with his first Junior Grand Prix event at the end of August. Yakov saw nobody on the roster who would pose a real threat to him there, which was almost a shame. A healthy amount of competition was needed to bring out the best in most skaters. Save perhaps those like Victor, who challenged himself regardless – but then, years of going undefeated hadn't done him well, either, had it?

They hadn't talked about it much, in these past couple of months. About Victor's programs and his progress, yes. He seemed cheerful. But he'd seemed cheerful before, too.

A couple of days before Yakov was to fly out with Yuri, they were in Victor's apartment. Victor, scrolling through their group's shared calendar, said, "Should I do a Challenger event this year? Mila's doing two, Zhora's doing one, I didn't do one last year, but it would be nice to see how they like the short—"

"No," said Yakov.

Victor blinked at him over his phone, looking startled by the blunt answer. "Why not?"

"If what you're having is problems with burnout, doing yet another competition isn't going to help. There's nothing wrong with your programs. The audiences will love them. The judges will, too, if they have eyes. You already know that. Take your time getting ready for the events that matter."

Victor sighed. "I guess you're right." He kept scrolling through the calendar, idly.

"Have you seen someone about that, yet?"

"No, I...." His scrolling suddenly paused. "Who's taking Yura to this?"

Yakov leaned over; he was pointing to the domestic competition that conflicted with Victor's first event. "I am. Didn't you get my email about it?" The look on Victor's face suggested that either he'd completely forgotten, or Yakov had forgotten to add him to it. "It can't be helped. You know how he acts even worse with the others. You'll be fine."

So why did Victor suddenly look hurt? "I wanted you to be there," he said, voice quieter than it had been a moment ago. "The first time I did the short – I wanted you to be there. Since it was for you."

"I've seen it a hundred times in practice," Yakov said. "I saw it the first time already."

"It's not the same," Victor snapped, dropping his phone on the table.

Yakov raised an eyebrow. What was he supposed to say to that? Victor didn't make these kinds of childish, selfish demands anymore – hadn't since he was an actual child, when he'd thrown full-on fits the first couple of times Yakov had made him go with an assistant instead of himself, for reasons Yakov had never fully understood. Even then, he'd gotten over it at some point.

"I can try to watch the live video," he offered, although it would probably be a headache to try, depending on how the times worked out. Mobile connections in rinks were often poor, and the video probably wouldn't load properly, and it was never the same on the tiny phone screens.

"No," Victor said, and he sighed and flopped back against the couch. "I don't want you to come up with a solution! I know I'm being ridiculous and childish. Of course you have to go with Yura."

"Then what is that you want, Vitya?"

Victor gave him a look. "I want you to hug me and let me know that it sucks."

"I still don't understand why it upsets you so much," Yakov said, but if Victor wanted a hug, Yakov could give him one, as he had hundreds of times so far in his life. He lifted one arm in invitation, and Victor slid under it and into his side.

"It's just one of those things. You know. Don't you? Or do you only get upset about reasonable things? Lately I complain to you all the time, and you never tell me about any of your worries."

"You don't complain _that_ much." And Yakov hardly considered _telling him what was making skating difficult for him_ to be complaining. It was important information. "And of course I worry! I have to worry for the whole lot of you, don't I? Otherwise you'd all be half-dead from quads by now, even Mila." Victor laughed lightly. "But you're still my student, even if we're – so it's not appropriate for me to complain to you about some things. And you've heard my rants about ISU and the federation at the rink."

"That's not the same," Victor whined. "What's the point of being lovers if you won't tell me anything secret?"

"Us being lovers is half the problem," Yakov snapped, and Victor drew away. "If you want to hear my worries – never mind what a bad idea it is as your _coach_ , it's that someone will somehow find us out, and then what will happen?"

"It's not going to happen," Victor protested. "We're not that careless, and even if someone went running to the news with a photo, nothing that bad is going to come of it."

"Nothing – Vitya, be reasonable—"

"I am being reasonable," Victor said, sitting fully upright. "Look, I've thought about it a little, and unless they have full-on video of us _fucking_ – we can say they're lying, that they misunderstood or had Photoshop or whatever, and who is everyone going to believe? The hero of Russia and his veteran coach who _also_ coaches the best junior and the best women's skater in the world! They'll just look like they're jealous, maybe they were paid by one of those coaches down in Moscow who wish they could put someone on the national podium beside me and Zhora. The federation isn't going to care if it's just me, I'm an adult – if they don't care about that creep in, where is it, I forget – anyway, they won't care if we still bring in medals. So it's not like it would even be a total disaster."

"There are things the federation doesn't control," he said, but then he had to pause, because Victor wasn't actually being totally irrational.

Yakov could do damage control – had needed to damage control, mostly because of Victor but also Yuri, and on one memorable occasion, Georgi. (Mila had so far limited any incidents to the rink, and was on her best behavior at competitions.) It was true that the federation had a habit of ignoring coaches that Yakov thought should have been removed long ago. He had a lot of clout because of his former and current students, and while there had been a couple of partings that were less than totally amicable, nothing that would have anyone going along with allegations of impropriety. No journalist would even be able to get a juicy quote out of Lilia, if she even deigned to speak to anyone stupid enough to ask her – it hadn't been that kind of divorce.

But if there were any concerns or accusations that seemed reliable enough... the federation didn't control what his connections thought, other coaches.

On the other hand, Victor was right that neither of them was that careless. Even if someone noticed them coming and going from each other's apartments, there were explanations. The only issue would be if Victor got bored of having secret trysts all the time instead of being able to gush about a lover in the same way Georgi did. Though they could, of course, always stop. That would be the most sensible thing of all, after not starting in the first place.

Yakov rubbed his temples. Victor had turned away from him to call Makkachin over, and now he was bent over the arm of the couch, presumably petting her. He didn't know what to do with this thick air between them. Perhaps it would be best if he apologized and left – but would Victor want him to leave? He was always asking him to stay.

They couldn't go to bed like this, either. He and Lilia had learned that early on even if they'd rarely argued – they'd stay up half the night anyway, finishing the argument.

He cleared his throat. Victor glanced over his shoulder, then sat up and turned around to slide arms around his shoulders before Yakov had said anything. "Maybe you should see a therapist, too. You're worrying for five people! That's a lot. Maybe we all need therapists and Zhora had the right idea first."

Yakov sighed and patted his shoulder. "Mila might be fine."

"You haven't seen how the hockey players jump when she enters the gym, have you? And Yura has such a temper!"

"If you can get him to agree to see anyone for it, I will _pay you_." That earned him an amused snort. "And Vitya. I should apologize. That wasn't the right way to yell at you. I didn't realize you'd thought so much about it, too." Victor was oblivious sometimes, but apparently not that oblivious, and he wasn't usually an idiot. More impulsive and stubborn than stupid.

Victor grinned. "And sorry for whining. I'll get over it. You need to make sure Yura doesn't terrify anyone on the way to winning his gold."

"I'll try." There was no helping the fact that Yuri had a death glare capable of cutting glass, and that it made his shier competitors shrink away. At least he was getting better at focusing on himself before he skated. "Did you want me to stay?"

Victor brightened and leaned in for a kiss. Yakov wasn't in the mood, and redirected it to his cheek. But at least the air was clear when they went to bed.

"You're tense," Victor said, raising his head from where he'd laid it on Yakov's chest. "Was there something else?"

"Nothing important. I was just trying to remember if we'd ever figured out why you were so upset when you were younger, when I had to go with someone else."

"Oh, that. I remember. Why _was_ I so upset?" He hummed for a few moments, then said, "I think I just wanted your attention, maybe. I liked you best so I wanted your attention the most. Or – no! It must have been the hugs. I liked hugging you when I won things, and I didn't want to hug anyone but you or Lilia. It would've been weird to hug anyone else."

"Was that it?" Victor had stopped going for the hugs so much in recent years. Hadn't gone for one at the last Olympics. Yakov remembered that much, the difference between that and his first two medals, the calmer way he'd acted in the kiss-and-cry.

"It must have been that." He reached up to rub little circles near the base of Yakov's neck. "You need to relax more. Do you really worry about someone finding out that much?"

Well, if Victor wanted to hear secrets— "I had a nightmare last week where Lilia called to ask if I'd at least waited until after the divorce was finalized." She wouldn't, ever, but since when did dreams make sense?

Victor flinched against him, and his touch slowed. "You should have said something."

Perhaps he should have, if only because of what Victor had said earlier. If he'd wanted a well-balanced relationship, he could have done better than _Yakov_ , but – this at least was related to Victor. Or perhaps not. It wasn't that big of a deal, and there was no use making two people upset about it.

He shrugged and put an arm across Victor's back. It made for a good distraction; Victor pulled it up a few centimeters and then flopped back onto Yakov's chest, and he didn't have anything more to say until morning.

~!~

Victor insisted on coming over the night before Yakov left with Yuri, if only to wake him up five minutes before his alarm was set with coffee and clingy hugs. "I'll only be gone a few days," Yakov said as Victor went for one last _last_ hug.

"I know," said Victor. If there was something to his smile, Yakov couldn't decide what it was.

The flight was fine. Yuri was behaving better this year than he had last year – maybe Yakov didn't really need to be the one to babysit him after all, he thought at first. And then Yuri snarled at a girl even smaller than him who accidentally tripped into him, sending her fleeing down the corridor, and Yakov had to march him over to apologize to her and her coach.

At least for all his laziness about practice, Yuri applied himself very, very well in competition. Perhaps too well. During his short program, Yakov cringed at the look Yuri got after he flubbed his double axel, ruining the expression his music called for, and the way he threw himself into his combination sent him spinning nearly out of control on the landing. A touch more wild and he could have slammed into the boards.

Yuri, surly in the kiss-and-cry afterward, actually seemed to be listening for once. Maybe because his win no longer seemed quite as guaranteed as it had an hour ago. Indeed, he was in third place by the end of the short program, narrowly above the boy in fourth.

Yakov expected him to do better in the free. "Don't forget about what Vitya said," he said on their way out of the arena, to help ensure Yuri wouldn't try quads – the way he frowned but nodded indicated that he remembered Victor's promise, even if Victor himself had forgotten (Yakov made a note in his calendar to remind Victor again after Junior Worlds, before Yuri realized). The free skate would be tougher, but Yuri could win it even without quads. And if he didn't, it was one competition, and a juniors one at that. Not ideal, but he would live.

Trying to relax in his room after dinner (Yuri had spent it glaring at his phone and no longer listening), Yakov found himself startled when his phone rang – it was Victor.

They talked about the area for a minute or two, avoiding the topic of Yuri's skate, but there wasn't much to say that needed saying. Yakov wondered why Victor had called. "Was that all?" he asked.

"I wanted to hear your voice," Victor sighed, dramatically enough to make Yakov roll his eyes. "I miss you."

"It's been, what, two or three days?"

"I knooow." He could hear movement on the other side; Victor rolling over on his bed, perhaps. Yakov went ahead and laid down on his. "But none of the other coaches yell the way you do. Some of them don't yell at all, and some of them shout the wrong way… it just makes me miss your voice."

"If you're missing my screaming at you, maybe I really do need to worry."

Victor laughed. "No, really! That was even how I knew that I would like training with you, way back when. First because you said to call you just Yakov when I tried to be formal to you, and second because you yelled a lot more nicely than my old coach. Of course," he added, the new tone of his voice taking Yakov away from the memory of cheerful little Victor hopping onto the ice in their rink for the first time, "there are other things I miss about you, too."

"Like my kind personality and my ability to spot every little mistake you make, I'm sure," Yakov said dryly, and was rewarded with more laughter.

"You are _very_ kind to me," Victor said, and his voice had changed – no, the way it sounded had changed. Maybe both. It sounded like he'd put Yakov on speakerphone. "And warm. I wish you were here right now." There was the slightest hint of a hitch to his breath, or perhaps Yakov was imagining things.

"It's been a couple of days," Yakov repeated. Even Victor couldn't be this ridiculous, could he? They didn't even spend that many nights a week together, more like one or two – Victor didn't invite him every night, and Yakov didn't take every invitation.

"Are you saying you don't miss me at all?" Yakov could hear the pout to his voice.

To be honest – not really. He hadn't missed Lilia right away, either, back in the day. It took a little time. Focusing on a student distracted him, too. "It might be nice to have you help me relax," he conceded.

Victor made a soft, pleased sound. There were indistinct noises from his side. The blankets moving? Yakov was a couple hours behind St. Petersburg time right now – it was late enough there for Victor to be going to bed and adjusting his covers. "Relax how?"

"You know perfectly well how."

"But _how_? Would you want me to suck you off?" That was _definitely_ a hitch to Victor's voice there. "Or use my hands? Or for us to fuck? You don't really want me to just give you a shoulder massage, do you?"

It was one thing to hear those things between the two of them, in the dark, entwined on Yakov's couch or laying together on Victor's bed. It was odd to hear them over the phone, as he lay alone in his well-lit hotel room. Of course nobody else could hear, but still. "No," he said, but he wasn't sure what else to say.

Victor huffed. "Haven't you ever had phone sex before?"

Yakov let the awkward silence speak for itself. He and Lilia never could have for most of their relationship, and even after they had bought cell phones it would have been expensive for the international calls, and they were never apart for _that_ long.

"Okay, okay," said Victor, and the tinge of laughter was back in his voice. "I haven't really, either, but it can't be that hard! Just talk to me? I do want to hear your voice."

He cleared his throat. Okay, if Victor wanted to try it. He wasn't that stuck in his ways just because he was old. "What are you doing? Are you...." What was a good thing to start with? He had no idea. "Are you touching yourself?"

"I was before I called you. But I was thinking a lot about you, about what I want you to do to me, so now I have a couple of fingers inside me." Oh, well – that explained the sounds, earlier. Yakov barely had to try to imagine Victor – on his side, or his back, long fingers working between his legs, probably with his silly hair falling into his face like it so often did. Yakov was surprised he hadn't gotten bored and cut it a different way yet again. "I thought about making it more interesting, but I didn't feel like getting up. And I was thinking of you. So I called."

"Does it feel good?" he asked, because he really had no idea how this was supposed to work. He had some vague idea that both people described what they were doing, or what they wanted to be doing. Victor's noises, while attractive, hadn't quite made it to the level of arousing yet, either.

"Yes," Victor moaned. "But it would be better if – I still don't think we need them, but I bought condoms."

"Then we should use them." He thought of Victor on top of him, underneath him, wrapped around him, quick imaginary flashes. "It would be a waste of money to let them expire."

"Yeah." There were more noises from his end – panting, gentle sucking sounds, little moans. More than turning Yakov on, they made him wish that he could at least see Victor. But turning on the video chat seemed like it would be even more awkward. It wouldn't be the same as being able to reach out and touch him – to properly see the flush spreading down his neck, to brush his stupid hair aside and kiss him as he begged for more.

Victor had to keep prompting him for more. Maybe he really did just want to hear his voice, despite how awkward Yakov felt trying to answer his questions and give him suggestions at first; eventually, Victor's voice petered off into something quiet and indistinct, punctuated by those lovely sounds of his. Yakov filled in the gaps on his end, saying this and that, listening more than he talked.

It was easy to tell when Victor spilled over, with the little _ah_ sounds he was making rising in pitch and his voice going stuttery. Yakov waited as he caught his breath, a little frustrated at being unable to touch Victor's face or hold him. At least Victor had clearly enjoyed it.

"Do you want to me to...?" Victor half-asked, still breathing hard.

"I'm fine." He wasn't completely unaffected by Victor's voice over the phone, or the images from his imagination, but he could take care of it himself without trying to talk with Victor. "Don't you need to be getting to sleep?"

"Probably." He yawned. "And Yura's skating again tomorrow, right? Tell him I said to do well."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it very much." He would do no such thing. Victor could text Yuri if he cared that much. "I'll see you in a few days."

"I can't wait." Another yawn. "Good night."

"Good night," said Yakov, and a moment later, added, "Sleep well."

"Okay," Victor said, and he was smiling; Yakov couldn't see it, but he could hear it.

After hanging up, the only noise in the room was the faint hum in his ears. Yakov rubbed one of them and flicked the light off. Maybe Victor would have liked to listen to what he did next, but Yakov didn't make nice sounds like he did, and he did need to sleep.

The next day, Yuri blasted through all of his jumps, and this time his grim face fit his music – classical, a moody piece that Yuri had liked when Yakov showed it to him. Another gold medal for him; a good start to the season.

Yakov carefully didn't think of Victor in anything but a professional capacity until they returned home, where Victor unexpectedly met them at the airport. Yuri got snarly, but mellowed somewhat at seeing that Victor had sweet pastries for both of them – nice ones, at that. There was a hot drink for Yakov, too.

In the cab, Yakov was stuck in the middle. Yuri fell asleep against the door; Victor settled against Yakov, clearly intending to do the same. One arm gently wrapped around Yakov's.

Nothing unusual. Victor had always been touchy like that, when it came to Yakov. Nothing out of the ordinary, except perhaps for the things Yakov thought of when Victor's head came down on his shoulder and his warm breath gently touched his neck, slow and steady.

Still, after Yuri had been dropped off, and the taxi came to a halt near Victor's building, he shook his head when Victor looked toward him. "I'll see you at the rink tomorrow." After spending all that time around Yuri, the other team members, a plane full of people – he was ready for some real quiet.

There was disappointment clear in Victor's eyes. But he didn't say anything; he gave him a hug, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and clambered out of the cab.

When Yakov finally got home, the silence of his apartment was welcoming. Maybe he wouldn't have minded if Victor had been there to warm his bed, but he fell asleep easily enough either way.

Yuri skipped morning practice. Mila showed up looking like she wished she had, though she valiantly struggled through edge exercises. Victor had lunch with Yakov, asking how Yuri had done at his competition – he hadn't watched it, apparently, so Yakov showed him the videos.

The first time through, Victor happily critiqued them as he watched, a bit more sensibly than he had his own. There, he was learning. Then he replayed the free program and went quiet.

He was quiet during afternoon practice, too, when Yuri did a good run-through – Yakov let him do a single quad salchow at the beginning of the program this time, though he didn't usually. Yuri needed to work on his stamina.

Yakov glanced at him as he finished telling Yuri what he needed to work on, surprised that he hadn't said anything, like Mila (teasing) or Georgi (trying to be helpful) had. As soon as Victor noticed, he put on a smile and found something to say that had Yuri sighing and rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

A minute later, it was Victor's turn, and he went out and skated his free program perfectly. Quad lutz, quad flip, the axel combination and the rest of it, all landed well, his spins smooth, steps well-timed, emotion evident from his face to his fingertips. Georgi actually clapped for him afterward (good for him).

Yuri's lips curled, and now it was his turn to be quiet.

That night, when Victor was in his bed, head on his chest, Yakov wondered about the too-distant, contemplative expression Victor had worn before he'd turned the light off. Training rivals was always tricky – sometimes Yakov was surprised that Georgi was still with him, though he was glad for it – but with the difference in age and experience between Victor and Yuri....

It was inevitable that journalists would be calling him 'the next Victor Nikiforov'. Probably some of them were already. Nevermind that Victor hadn't retired yet. Or that Yuri was not, in many important ways, Victor. Victor had always been the complete package, a natural performer and a natural jumper. Yuri was more aggressive, and he needed to settle into his programs in his own way.

He wasn't Victor's replacement. They would be competing together next year, if Victor chose to—

"How mad do you think Yura would be if I retired after this season?" Victor murmured.

"That would depend on if you stay to coach him or not."

"Even though he complains whenever I try to help him _now_. But that's Yura. Are you going to let him compete at senior Nationals this year?"

Yakov groaned. He could, in fact, understand the value of letting the top juniors get some more experience, and a taste of seniors competition, but— "He's under enough pressure as it is. We'll see what his condition is after the GPF." When Victor stayed quiet, Yakov wound a hand in his hair. "Don't base your career decisions on what will make him the most angry."

"Hah, well, I think I'd do better by beating him as soundly as possible in every competition next year, if that was what I wanted to do." He went silent again, and this time Yakov let him stay that way. Whatever it was that had him thinking, he could have some time to sort it out on his own. As long as Yakov didn't let anything fester, since Victor was apparently incapable of letting him know before it reached a critical point.

Victor did another run-through a few days later, having decided to change some of the choreography. Yakov didn't even notice that he'd left out one of his jumps until Georgi said, "If I didn't know better, I wouldn't have realized you forgot a combination. You handled it so smoothly."

"Oh," said Victor, "I didn't forget. It wasn't working with the music, so I took it out."

Georgi blinked at him. Yakov, already sensing a bad idea incoming, pre-emptively rubbed his forehead to try and ward off the headache.

"But you didn't put another in?"

"I haven't figured out where to put it yet. Maybe I could leave it out altogether – the base value is high enough without it anyway—"

"Vitya," Yakov said, " _no_."

"I'm joking," he said, but Yakov knew enough to be suspicious by now. "Really! I'll do it again with the combo if you want. It can't be good for your blood pressure to glare like that."

Maybe he did need to have another talk with Victor, if he was _that_ bored with his skating. He even went over what he might say on the walk to Victor's apartment that evening, but then Victor pushed him to the couch and dropped into his lap, wrapped his arms around his neck, and Yakov – he shouldn't have gotten distracted, but he let himself be. Victor kissed so nicely, after all, and he leaned so gratifyingly into Yakov's touch, and his hands were so good on Yakov's skin. They could always talk later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (now quite belatedly for) Yakov Week Day 5: Off coach duty | Daily routine | habits, quirks | slice of life
> 
> I think it's safe to say this fic has run away on me. Hope you're enjoying it.
> 
> By the way, Victor's free skate layout, as written in one of the extracanon books, really is missing a combination jump. Probably just a mistake on the part of whoever came up with it or who put it in the book, but I like to think that maybe he really was being That Extra and winning without one of the jumps because he's Victor Nikiforov and he can do that.


	6. Chapter 6

It was always interesting to take his senior students to test skates. Victor sometimes liked to play around to defy the expectations of the federation officials, while Georgi, his position always a little more precarious (unfortunately), threw himself into his programs full-throttle while ignoring all remarks on his music and choreography. They just didn't _understand_ him, he would say. Perhaps it was true. Yakov didn't understand how Georgi's dramatics changed so much from practice to competition, either.

The two of them did fine. Mila, who had been doing so well all week in practice, landed her triple axel in her free program – and then proceeded to screw up the rest of it out of over-excitement, with her landings getting sloppy.

"Maybe," said someone, later, "you should take it out if it's going to take so much out of you."

Mila bristled, her eyes developing a gleam that meant trouble. Yakov put a warning hand on her arm (Victor could afford to mouth off; best not to risk it with the rest of them) and said, "It's not taking it out of her. She simply gets so happy to have landed it that she loses her concentration. It's only a mental issue and we're working on keeping her focus. She'll be ready by competition."

She nodded vigorously, and though the glare above her smile wasn't quite as deadly as the one she leveled at anyone who dared pick on the skaters at the rink, it was close.

 _Only a mental issue_ , he'd said, as if those were solved as easy as anything. It had him thinking about something Victor had said while they made their way back to their rink, his skaters trading notes about what they'd been told. Perhaps – though no doubt unintentionally – he'd had a good idea.

So, next week, he called Mila and then Victor into his office, telling them that he wanted them to make appointments with the rink's sports psychologist before the season began in earnest.

"Is this about the axel? Coach, I can figure it out on my own," Mila groaned.

"Maybe you can. Or maybe you wouldn't figure it out any sooner than you'd figure out your jumps without help. You've had a habit of getting too sloppy in your programs before, too. I'm not telling you what to say to her, I'm telling you just to see her even once and see if she has any advice for staying focused and skating cleanly."

"I was _joking_ when I said you should get us all therapy," said Victor, staring.

"That's nice. Pick a time." When Victor was silent, he raised an eyebrow. They'd talked about this during the summer, hadn't they? "What? Have you found another one on your own?"

"No," he said. "But it's fine! I'm feeling better lately, so—"

"That's nice. Really, Vitya. I want you to be happier. Now _pick a time._ "

Victor picked a time.

Yakov didn't ask them what came of it – that was their business, not his, when there weren't any obvious issues getting in their way – but Mila did do a little better at her first event. The wobbles in both of her programs were still there, but in her free skate, she visibly took a moment (visible to Yakov, anyway) to calm and get back into the music during a long spread eagle.

Victor didn't greet them at the airport when they came back, but he did send Yakov a message asking if he wanted to come over the next day. After Yakov answered (yes), he found that Victor had also retwittered a fan's video clip of Mila landing her triple axel, with some of his favorite English words added to the caption: _Amazing! Perfect!_ _❤⛸!!_

Yakov went ahead and liked the original post without thinking too much about it. It was an impressive achievement – few women could land one. Liking things was what kids these days did on social media, right? If he had an account to keep track of them, he might as well use it once in a blue moon. He was rather annoyed to find, a few hours later, that his phone insisted on alerting him to the fact that more than a few skating fans had noticed. They were even liking a screenshot of his like (and so had Mila).

"They think it's cute that you're so nice to us even though you always look so grumpy," Victor said when he mentioned it the next day. He shifted himself further up Yakov's chest and propped himself up on his elbows. "They're like that when you give us hugs or hand us gifts and things, too. Anything that's not you lecturing us."

Yakov moved Victor's elbows (they dug in) and shifted against the arm of the couch. "Those are normal things for coaches to do."

"You let Mila put her head against your shoulder when she had that awful short program last year! You patted her hair and stopped scolding her! Some coaches would've just glared at the camera. It wasn't, like, holding her to your bosom and promising that tomorrow would be another fight, but it was nice. You're nice." He reached out to poke Yakov's cheek. "I like that about you."

Sometimes Yakov still wondered what exactly Victor saw in him, when he could have had anyone else – someone kind, sure, but also handsome and younger. It couldn't just be that he was _nice_ (there had to be much nicer people out there, anyway – Yakov wasn't fooling himself about his own gentleness). Or that he was experienced, and knew exactly how to shift his hands up Victor's waist to get his eyes to flutter, how to kiss him so he melted into it.

Yakov didn't think Victor was into older men in particular, though that was based on the small number of dates he'd spouted off about when he was younger. So what was it? If he was truly the best of Victor's options, Victor had a serious problem with meeting people. Even some of the other skaters wouldn't have cared about the medals. Was Chris taken or too complicated or too far? Was Cao Bin too far or too gangly? Was—

Victor panted against his cheek and moved to kiss it, then his neck, light and pleasurable little things as he moved down to work on his buttons. He was certainly talented with his hands, and his mouth. And pleasant to look at, of course. If only they weren't student and coach, Yakov would have hardly had grounds to complain about their trysts, on his part.

He wasn't sure how long this was going to last, some days. Victor might get bored or move on to another career and another companion, or simply decide Yakov was too old for him after all. But it didn't seem likely to end soon when Victor gave him an unfocused look from where he was trying to undo Yakov's belt, and it didn't seem likely in the next few weeks, either, as Victor kept up his interest even when Yakov was flying back and forth. To Challengers and Yuri's next competition, before a few weeks of relative relaxation as his Seniors got ready for their Grand Prix events.

"You should watch the program after I skate it," Victor said, late the night before they were due to be separated again, this time with Victor going to France and himself to Yuri's smaller competition.

"I always do."

"No, no, not like usual. To enjoy it, the first time. You know, turn off the part of your brain that's identifying jumps and trying to estimate PCS and everything. You can do all of that the second time."

Yakov turned over in his bed as though he could glean anything off of the vague shadow of Victor's face. "Why?"

"Because it's for you. And you should come over next Thursday! No, wait, I'll come here. I'll have a good surprise for you."

He sighed and asked again, "Why?"

"Because it's your birthday!" Victor kicked him, though with little force. "Don't tell me you've forgotten it. You're not that old."

"I'm too busy with the lot of you to remember things like that. Besides, they get less special after you've had so many of them."

Victor gave a soft laugh and cuddled closer. "Well, let's make it special anyway. I'm going to miss you. I wanted you to see the program."

"It can't be helped," Yakov said, but he did curl an arm around Victor, and that seemed to mollify him, judging by the way he exhaled and went quiet.

Yuri spent his competition marginally less grumpy than usual. The air of aggression he carried was hardly impacted, though. The other kids his age chatted with each other after their programs, avoiding Yuri; only one brave young man, one of Yuri's main Russian rivals (such as he was) approached to ask for a selfie together.

Yakov hoped he would grow out of all of this glaring and shouting. It was one thing to have a death glare before the competition – Mila's was a doozy – but it was another to be entirely unapproachable throughout the whole thing and afterward. Maybe the therapist could help him with _that_ , if Yuri would ever talk to her.

Yuri took gold, as expected, though with a somewhat narrower margin than he'd had at his Junior Grand Prix events, which he didn't seem to care about. The other top boys had been more consistent this time, more consistent than they normally were. Yuri had kept his top ranking in PCS, though – maybe they weren't exactly the scores Yakov would have given him, but he did deserve to be first there. He had a natural grace, and while more performing ability would come with time and experience – that was one reason to bring him to an additional competition like this – he was good for a young teen.

Yakov was looking forward to how he would do with another year of growth and practice. And on top of that, with Victor's choreography and perhaps a summer of being bossed around by someone who was so detail-oriented in his own programs.

Over in France, Mila took gold, happily, and Victor did as well, to the surprise of nobody.

Thursday came, and Victor invited himself into Yakov's apartment. Yakov thought at first that his present was the dinner Victor made after locking Yakov out of his own kitchen for a couple of hours, paired with some wine from the back of the cabinet that he'd forgotten he had. It was very good, as he told Victor several times in response to his anxious inquiries.

The back rub Victor gave him afterward was lovely, too. Clearly Victor was no expert in giving them, but perhaps he'd been through enough of them in the course of maintaining his own health. Or perhaps he'd learned from TubeTube, as young people seemed to do with everything these days.

Still, it was quite relaxing. Yakov found himself starting to drift off to the feeling of fingers working up and down his back. Years of competition – he hadn't done quads, but he'd competed until he was older than Victor was – plus a few decades on Earth had not been the kindest to his back, but Victor's touch helped him forget about that.

Eventually, Victor pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, right over one of the bumps of his spine. It sent a pleasant tingle down his back; he'd found that Victor always shuddered when he did it, but it was the first time he'd done it to Yakov. Victor sat back on his heels. "How was that?"

"You might have undone the damage from this week." He sat up slowly, careful not to bend anything the wrong way. He leaned over to kiss Victor's cheek. "It was a good present."

Victor smiled and turned his head to kiss him properly, gentle, arms draping around his neck. "That wasn't the end of your present," he said when he drew back. And then he climbed into Yakov's lap. "I want to do something special. What do you want to do?"

"I'm not that fussy." He reached up to pull Victor down – he was too tall, Yakov still thought on the odd occasion, and he'd shot up fast enough for a while there as a teenager to make Yakov worry about his talent going to waste. But he wasn't too tall to bend down and kiss, gasping into Yakov's mouth, thighs tightening around his hips.

"That's—" Victor shook his hair from his face and took a breath. "That's not an answer. Come on, you must have something you want from me. I'll do anything you want to."

If their situation had been anything else, the playful words might have been a turn-on, an invitation for Yakov to use his imagination. But given how their relationship was, the words were like cold water. Not that Victor would obey him in bed just because he was his coach – as though he would obey him anywhere just because he was his coach – but.... "Don't say _anything_ ," Yakov said.

"Why not?" Victor gave him a confused look, before melting to something fonder. "Is this one of your things? Okay, fine. How about 'anything that you want to that sounds interesting'?" Either the different words helped, or Victor's amused grin did. "You know, any fantasies you have, or—"

"I dreamed about you while you were away in France."

Victor's expression went pleased. "What did you dream about?"

"Well...." He pulled Victor in for another kiss, first, before letting him go. "To start with, you weren't wearing anything."

Victor's smile widened, and he hopped off the bed to strip. He didn't take as much care as he usually did, letting his expensive clothes drop to the ground, but he was definitely trying to tease as he pulled his last layers off, revealing his handsome body. There were a few scars that Yakov could only see because he knew they were there, a tiny Olympic tattoo on his inner thigh that flashed in and out view as he moved, black on his pale skin. Victor did a little pose when his clothes were all off, and Yakov shifted so he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

He could list off every weakness that lay under Victor's pale skin and firm muscles – old injuries that had healed but left their mark, worn joints. But Victor was incredibly strong, too, physically as well as mentally, and there was something satisfied in the way he ran his hand over his hip, smiling as Yakov looked him up and down.

Yakov gestured him over, and Victor came to him. He was lucky to get to touch him, even if he shouldn't be doing so; but enough of that thought. Victor was too warm when Yakov pulled him into his lap, muscles moving under his hands. "What next?" he asked, after they'd kissed a few more times. His eyes were wide with eagerness in a way that made Yakov kiss him again.

"You slid down to the floor," he said, and Victor did so, crossing his arms over Yakov's lap and peering up at him. Yakov paused to pull one of the pillows over and pass it down for Victor's poor knees.

"And next?"

Yakov put a hand to Victor's hair and brushed it away from his face. It started to fall back into place almost immediately when he let go. "You undid my belt," he said, and Victor was already moving to follow the directions. They were so much less awkward to give face-to-face, rather than over the phone. He didn't need to be told what to do next, as he carefully pulled Yakov's cock out, but he paused there to look up again. "You started to touch it. Lightly."

So Victor touched it, lightly. He was good at this, his fingers moving over Yakov's skin with delicate pressure. They moved from the base up towards the tip, slow, lingering around the head and making Yakov's breath quicken. Victor's eyes were on his work, pale eyelashes more visible than the eyes themselves, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. When Yakov, already feeling his blood rush from the teasing, put a hand to his cheek, he turned to press his lips to it.

A few more words of prompting had Victor leaning forward to take Yakov's cock in his mouth. At first just the head, making Yakov hiss through his teeth – the warm feeling of his _tongue_ on something so sensitive had his body curling in toward Victor. Then Victor took in more, and more, his hand gently wrapped around the base as he started to move his head, establishing a slow rhythm.

It still felt like he should have felt guilty about how much he enjoyed looking at Victor between his thighs like this. But he was getting quite used to such sights, and he didn't. He slid his hand over Victor's hair, encouraging him, gazing at him.

Victor pulled off for a moment to breathe, then glanced up at him and kept up the eye contact as he went back to work. Yakov swore at something he did that seemed to leave his vision blank for a moment; Victor hummed in response, which made Yakov's toes curl. He couldn't look away. Not when Victor was looking at him like that – eager, satisfied, proud of himself – as he sucked on him lightly.

For a few minutes, there was just the sound of their breathing, hard in the quiet room, small noises from Victor's mouth, whatever little things Victor managed to draw from him with his movements. And then Victor drew away again, shuddering. His eyes flickered closed as he ducked his head. "Ah," he murmured, pressing his forehead to Yakov's thigh. Yakov could feel his breath, quick, and more importantly, could feel Victor's cock where it rubbed against his leg, Victor seeking friction. "Ah, sorry, give me...."

Victor trying to rub himself against Yakov's leg while also visibly trying to clear his head was too pathetic of a sight; Yakov couldn't stand it. "Come here." He pulled Victor up again, kissed him, stroked his cock a couple of times – Victor shivered and moaned into their kiss, but he pulled Yakov's hand away.

"I was trying to do something for you," he complained. "I bet this isn't how that dream went."

"If it's my birthday present, let me decide what I want. Besides, I don't remember the ending to the dream." Not that it mattered that much. It was a dream, a starting point. The way Victor frowned said he was taking this too seriously. "Didn't you also have a fantasy you wanted to fulfill? You called me just to talk about it."

Victor straightened. "Do you want to?"

Yakov raised an eyebrow. A moment later, Victor was kissing him like it was an emergency, bruisingly hard, both hands in his hair so he couldn't move away. He broke it just as suddenly and twisted away to sprawl out on the covers, leaving Yakov blinking at nothing for a second or two.

"Slow down," Yakov grumbled as he turned to follow. "I don't have the reflexes I used to."

"You're doing fine," Victor said, his voice bright with false encouragement. "But hurry up and come down here." He reached out and drew Yakov in, pressing softer kisses to his face as Yakov arranged his body beside him. Victor twined their legs together and pulled Yakov even closer, breath picking up again at the contact.

Yakov let his hips roll into the small space between their bodies, once, twice. This was good, this was – very good, but it wasn't what Victor was asking for tonight. He made himself reach over Victor for the bedside table, though the angle was awkward. Victor's shoulder twisted at an even more awkward angle under his, and his hand followed Yakov's into the drawer to pick up the lube first.

"Do you want to see what I looked like when I called you?" he asked. Of course Yakov did.

Watching him was certainly different from only hearing his voice over the phone. Much better. Victor's eyes locked on his again as he pushed his fingers into himself, breath hitching just as it had that night, other hand clutching first at the pillow, and then at Yakov. Yakov touched his cheek when his eyelids fluttered, watched his hips make small movements in time with his hand. It was still fascinating to see this Victor, the one who gazed back at him with such dark, wanting eyes. Yakov's imagined view of him didn't hold a candle to the real thing.

He reached down to stroke him again. Victor gasped his name, and then his fingers were slipping out. "Is that enough?" Yakov asked.

" _Yes_." Victor's leg wrapped over Yakov's waist, heavy – he could feel the muscles tense and relax against him. Yakov pulled it up, intending for it to simply rest more comfortably on his side, but Victor shifted to hook it over his shoulder and grinned at him. Show-off. But he appreciated it. "Hurry up," Victor said, but Yakov took his turn to tease, spreading his fingers across Victor's waist and shifting his position. Victor huffed at him, only to go quiet as soon as Yakov started to push into him.

He expected Victor to complain about how slowly he slid in – maybe make a remark about how he wasn't fragile, as though Yakov didn't see the beating he took in practice every day when he missed jumps. But Victor didn't say a word, letting Yakov enjoy the sensation of sliding into him little by little, until he was all the way in and Victor was hot around him and he had to press his face against Victor's skin for a moment and simply breathe.

One of Victor's arms joined his leg on his shoulder; the other grasped at the pillow as Yakov rocked in, out, his fingers tightening in the fabric as Yakov started to find a rhythm. Yakov closed his eyes, opened them, saw the expression on Victor's face – brows drawn together, mouth parted – and couldn't help but kiss him.

"Harder," Victor panted, the word turning into a quiet moan as Yakov pushed back into him. His other arm reached out, too, pulling Yakov even closer.

So close. So hot, between the two of them, even in the nighttime chill of the apartment. Yakov didn't thrust into Victor _harder –_ he kept his movements steady – but he let his hands roam, wanting more of him, to touch him. His smooth chest, his flushed neck, his bony hips.

Maybe he'd missed Victor a bit while he was in France, during the nights they hadn't spent together. It was nice to feel him again. To feel him shudder when Yakov rocked into him, to feel him making small, aborted movements of his hips to go with Yakov's, to feel his hard cock dragging along his stomach. To taste the faint salt on his skin when Yakov muffled a groan into his shoulder.

"Harder," Victor begged again.

"I thought this was supposed to be my present," Yakov said, surprised at how rough his voice sounded. Victor blinked at him slowly through his bangs and pulled at him some more.

"I guess, but—"

"Shh." He rather liked this pace. Easy, intimate. No need to be impatient. "Next time."

"Fine." Victor said it with a disappointed expression that lasted all of a second before he dropped his head on a gasp. There were hands in Yakov's hair, on his neck, then tipping his head up for a loose kiss. One hand dropped away to worm its way down the narrow amount of space that Victor had left between their bodies so he could touch himself.

"There you go," Yakov murmured against his skin, other quiet, encouraging things. He wasn't entirely sure of all he said, too lost in the feel of Victor.

It was always something to see Victor come, his pretty face twisting before it relaxed, his muscles contracting as his body shook. Yakov could even feel tension in his toes against his back for a moment, and then the tension left them, left Victor lolling against the bed as Yakov continued to fuck him.

He seemed to lie there for long moments, before he brushed his hair off his face with the back of his fingers and smiled at Yakov. Tiny, tired, but real, a kind of smile Yakov had rarely seen on him except during these nights together.

It was silly, but it felt like it was the smile that did it for him, that had him turning them slightly so he was more on top of Victor, gaze on Victor's face, and then he was pushing into Victor one last time to ride out his own orgasm. It faded slowly enough that Yakov found himself blinking at the wall like he had spots in his eyes.

"That was really good," Victor said. Helpful. He seemed disinclined to move. So was Yakov. He nudged Victor's knee until it pulled off his shoulder and stretched out instead, and then he could put his forehead down on Victor's collar and try to get his breath back.

He meant to simply rest for a few moments. But Victor was warm, and was back to hugging him, and it was late. It was difficult to move, and there was more and more time between each blink of his eyes, and then....

Before he knew what had happened, he found himself awakening. Had he really just...?

Yakov propped himself up enough to squint at the clock and saw it could only have been a short doze. The motion made Victor shift, pulling him back down and sleepily snuggling them together again. "Let go of me for a moment, Vitya."

"Don't want to," Victor said, the words slurring together into one.

"Vitya."

"You were calling me nicer things than that a minute ago." He stifled a yawn with one hand, not letting go with his other, and making a half-hearted attempt to wrap his legs around Yakov, too. "I like you here."

But even Victor, who liked to cling and cuddle and hug like he had an octopus in his family tree, was only so strong when he was sleepy. He whined when Yakov managed to push himself up and out of his grip, then again when Yakov finally pulled out of him, and the sounds he made as Yakov rolled out the bed had him rolling his eyes.

He was only gone for a minute, to take care of the condom and wet a washcloth. Victor, for all his complaining, seemed to forgive him instantly when he not only returned, but ushered them both under the covers, with the door left open in case the dog wanted to join them.

"That was good," Victor said again. He was even warmer under the blankets, except for his feet. They were fine when he was skating on ice for hours, but get him under a quilt and they refused to warm up some nights. Yakov didn't understand it.

"Sorry about falling asleep like that."

"Hm? No, it's fine. It was nice." He rubbed his cheek against Yakov's neck; his skin was smoother than Yakov's. Always was, without scratching stubble. "I kind of liked waking up again with you still inside of me."

"Really?" It hadn't been the first time – Yakov wasn't a stranger to exhausted sex – but he'd never thought of it as _nice_. It was a thing that happened.

"It was, you know, intimate." Victor smiled against him, then pressed a kiss to his neck when Yakov wrapped an arm around him. "Did you like all of it?"

"Tonight was a good birthday present." He pulled Victor a little closer. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Victor said. "Now you have plenty of time to think of what to do for my birthday! Besides helping me win another gold medal."

Right; the men's free skate would be right on Victor's birthday. The fact that his and Georgi's birthdays were around Nationals most years had long since passed being a tiresome joke. "Don't get too confident," he scolded.

"Pick out something fun, okay," Victor said, like he hadn't heard.

Yakov dropped off again a few minutes after they fell into silence, and found himself awake before his alarm. Not naturally (they hadn't gone to sleep that early), but because of Victor shifting around on top of him, hard, as though he wasn't sure what he should do about it.

"Would you settle down?"

"Oh! You're awake. Good – can we do it again?"

Yakov blinked at him a few times in the dark, then groaned and raised a hand to rub his face. "Not all of us are so young, you know. In case you hadn't noticed."

"You've been asleep for, like, six hours! And you have an attractive young man in your arms. Come on. I'm sure you can get it up again."

"At least be more specific than 'do it again'. Do what? The same as last night, the other way around, something else?"

"I don't know. Touch me?"

Yakov glanced at the clock again. They had plenty of time. He might need coffee before they went to the rink, but, well. He did have a very attractive young man in his arms. Had _Victor_ in his arms, his voice light and pleasant. Happy. Happier when Yakov touched him.

Happy, too, over breakfast, petting his dog's head in his lap with one hand while eating with the other and trying to play with his phone at the same time. Yakov ignored his in favor of eating at a real pace, and observing Victor. His smiles. The tone of his voice as he talked, switching back and forth depending on whether he was talking to his dog or to Yakov. The way he breathed in the steam coming off of his tea before taking a sip, his face utterly relaxed.

Yakov felt pretty contented, himself.

~!~

They re-watched the videos from France, and as he worked with Victor in the days leading to Rostelecom, it wasn't just the technical side that Yakov was thinking about. Victor was different in competition than he was during practice at their rink. So was his smile even when he was tired from a run-through, hands on his hips as he glided slowly. He looked happier than he had at France; the free program had been fine, but the short had been lacking the energy it needed. Perhaps only because Yakov was looking for it. Certainly the judges hadn't seemed unhappy with it.

He was different again when they went to practice at Rostelecom. Victor was so popular that even the public practices filled a good number of seats, and he received far louder cheers than anyone when he came onto the ice.

When he skated over to Yakov before his turn to practice his short, he seemed easy-going enough. But now that he'd said all those things to Yakov, he could read – thought he could read, at least – a little tension that shouldn't have been there, an emptiness to his smile.

"First of all," said Yakov, "mark your jumps. All of them. You don't need them right now." Victor nodded; that was normal enough. Yakov paused to glance over the small crowd. No doubt there were phone cameras pointed their way at this moment, not to mention the other coaches and the officials at the side of the rink. Right now, speaking quietly was all the privacy they were going to get. But he did go as far as folding a hand over one of Victor's on the boards; that was normal enough, too. "I want you to focus properly on your performance. That's your strength, but it was lacking last time. So ignore your fans. Don't think about pleasing them! Don't even think about me, if you have to. You know what this program means for you, and what it represents. You have to show that. Don't just go through the motions."

"You sound like Zhora," Victor said with a short laugh. "Was it really lacking? My PCS were fine."

"They're always fine, when you skate cleanly," Yakov said. "I could see the difference from how you skate it in practice. Now come on, it's almost your turn."

The previous skater was finishing his run-through with a dramatic knee slide that got some whoops from the audience. Victor clapped a few times, then turned and gave Yakov a smile before he skated off.

It wasn't entirely what it should be, still. Victor's eyes looked somewhere far away as he skated, dancing across the surface of the ice, then pausing where his jumps should go. He did a little better at hitting the poses with full extension and poise than he had before, at least. It was too bad Lilia wasn't here, Yakov thought for a moment, to make sure they always looked like that. Victor's ballet teacher had no doubt been working on it with him, but she wasn't the same.

But she was skilled, and Victor had been taking ballet for as long as he'd been skating, and he looked fine. He looked fine, except that Yakov knew how he skated at their home rink.

The clapping at the end was louder for Victor than it had been for everyone else in the practice group. It always had been since his first Olympic medal, when he'd charmed his way into everyone's hearts and taken a surprise gold at the same time. The federation was really going to be upset when he decided that enough was enough. They would be out so much money from the tickets his presence sold.

Hopefully not yet. Not this year. If Victor could just figure out how to deal with his burnout....

"How was it?" Victor asked, leaning onto the boards.

"A bit like that, but more."

"It's easier with you here," Victor said, grinning. "But, you know, I really do want to make my fans happy. It's not a bad thing."

"They're not that hard to please, Vitya." They weren't; especially here, with the home crowd, Victor would get two standing ovations unless he truly screwed up. Probably even then. He was very well loved by skating fans.

So the next day, before the short program, Yakov reminded him to express himself. Victor shook his head and responded by reaching over the boards to hug him. With the additional height difference of the skates and the ice, Victor had to bend to an awkward angle to put his head down against his shoulder. Yakov sighed, but patted his back a couple of times.

Then Victor went off, and he didn't screw up. His focus was on point, despite the full stadium clapping every twenty or thirty seconds. It wasn't perfect – Yakov would have things to point out in the kiss-and-cry afterward, and it was still lacking that extra expressiveness that Victor could deliver – but for the crowd that vaulted to their feet and screamed their hearts out, it might as well have been.

Victor's face as they left was pensive. Maybe he'd felt the difference. His expression was a little too serious for him to simply be thinking of Makkachin. Well, there would be next time; it was still early in the season.

The free skate had been fine in terms of performance in France, and it was fine here, too. Before Victor's audience, his costume floating and sparkling with every move, it was even stronger than it was in practice. Yakov had thought he'd been playing at the story of loneliness to fulfillment, the first time he had seen this, the same way that Victor played so well at every other role he'd brought to the ice. Even in practice, it was easy to forget, with how he put it on and took it off so easily. But simply sitting here and watching, Yakov couldn't help but think about how Victor was putting something of himself out there, and how he'd missed it that first time.

If only Victor had _said_. Yakov couldn't help missing a message buried in the theme of his skating. Victor wasn't like Georgi, who always laid his heart out before his audience. Thank goodness for whatever it was that had brought Victor to his apartment that night, so that maybe he could finish the story, happy ending and all.

"Vitya," called a group of fans tossing flowers, as Victor skated off the ice. "We'll always love you!"

Victor beamed and added one of their bouquets to his armful, all of which he promptly dumped in Yakov's arms as soon as he had stepped off so he could grab his guards. There was no surprise when the scores came up and Victor was quite firmly in first place.

He smiled at the announcement. But it wasn't like even a few years ago, when he would have bounced in his seat, or grinned while holding up his tissue box or gifts, or grabbed Yakov's arm.

"Good job," Yakov said, because he might as well try _something_. "I know you worked hard for it."

Victor turned to him, and his smile got a little more confused. "I guess? It still has room for improvement, though. I was thinking—"

"It can wait until we get back to our rink." He shoved one of the bouquets of flowers back into Victor's arms. "Enjoy the moment for a few seconds, would you? You deserve it."

Victor blinked at him. "Okay," he said, still smiling, still clearly a little confused. He shifted the flowers in his arms to wave once more at the camera, before they were shuffled off to await the start of the award ceremony.

Yakov didn't bother attending. There were only so many times in life a person could stand to watch the same ceremony, and he'd passed that number long before he'd picked up Victor as a student. There was the occasional memorable moment – flags gone missing right before the victory lap, one of the pretty children holding the flowers tripping and smashing into one of the medalists, that god-awful time in France a couple of years ago where the platform had wobbled so badly the medalists had apparently been afraid to move. But for the most part, it was the same thing with the names and language changed out.

While he waited for Victor to re-appear backstage, he checked the assignments again. Victor, of course, was in for the GPF. Mila and Georgi just had to not fall apart in a couple of weeks, as Georgi had also taken a gold in his first event, skating cleaner than anyone else. Mila might take silver or bronze to Sara Crispino or one of the Japanese women, but either way she'd be in. Georgi faced a slightly easier field, but nothing was ever guaranteed, was it? Except Victor's wins, it seemed like.

Guaranteed by his hard work, at least. Yakov had meant what he'd said a few minutes earlier. Victor made everything look so easy by putting in the hours and effort. If only Yuri could pick up some of that work ethic from him, or from Georgi, or even Mila, who hadn't exactly learned her triple axel by chance.

Still. He'd made it to the junior GPF, and it looked like his three senior students might well make it to theirs. Yakov let himself have a moment just to bask in it, a repeat of the same situation from last year. They had been such a handful at the competition, even with the assistant coaches, but it had been worth it to see them all there.

The next day was the gala, something else Yakov usually skipped. Not this time, though. Apparently, there really was no rule that one couldn't bring a dog to an exhibition, and somehow Victor must have talked someone into letting a pet into the building. Yakov waited with Makkachin by the side of the rink, watching Victor skate the first part of his program, before handing her off to him. The audience gasped as Makkachin cautiously walked out onto the ice, looking up at Victor as he led her out a little before kneeling down in front of her.

Ridiculous. But Yakov could feel a smile tugging at his lips as he watched Victor have Makkachin do a few simple tricks in time with the music, then ruffled her ears and told her to wait as he skated off again. She waited patiently for him to finish and come back over, wagging her tail and looking cute, and they both left the ice to loud cheers.

Victor hadn't smiled so much after a program in years.

When they landed back home in St. Petersburg, Yakov gave in to his tiredness and let Victor take him along to his apartment. Victor asked him to take a picture of him and Makkachin, as he held up his two gold Grand Prix medals. It instantly went up on NowPic, captioned _See you in Sochi!!!_

Then, at least, they could collapse into bed for real sleep. Just sleep, tonight, as it was some nights; sometimes all Victor seemed to want was someone besides his dog to cuddle up with, and sometimes Yakov was too tired from herding students all day for anything else.

In the morning, Yakov made breakfast. On coming back from his run, Victor thanked him with a kiss and promptly lost all attention to his phone. Yakov gave in and did the same, thumbing through a couple of articles on Rostelecom and checking that the journalists hadn't mangled Victor's words too much, or his. Eventually, Victor scooted around the table and laid his head on Yakov's shoulder, while he kept playing with his phone.

Later, at the rink, Yakov went to go find his students after one of their off-ice workouts. Georgi would be tagging along with his girlfriend's class today, but the rest of them would be in their usual room.

"Vitya," he could hear Mila saying as he approached, "you're so strict about all this! You sound like coach."

"You should have taken stretching lessons with Lilia," he replied. "Knees turned properly, back straight, point your toes, relaxed fingers, relaxed shoulders – she used to tell me off if I didn't sit right at home, either."

Ah. Yes. Lilia. That reminded him of something he'd been contemplating recently. He could think about it later, though.

"I _guess_ it's good for you," she said. "A lot of annoying things are. He made you see that counselor too, right?"

"Yeah." A pause. Yakov paused, too, just beyond the doorway to the small, mirrored room where he could see Victor and Mila stretching together. Victor, Mila... and no sign of Yuri. He reached for his phone. "She was okay."

"I didn't think I'd go back to see her, but she was more helpful than I thought she would be. I'm going to nail my programs at NHK and the final and triple axel my way to victory." She laughed, the sound high and confident. Victor laughed with her. "Take that, Sara's stupidly perfect lutz-loop! Hm, but I was surprised – did you really need to see her? I mean, you seem fine to me, and if you need to get something off your mind, you and coach are pretty close already, aren't you? Especially lately. I keep seeing you walk into the rink with him."

"You noticed?" Victor laughed again. "His place is on the way from mine. I told him I don't want him to get too lonely in his old age." (Really, Victor?)

"I think it's nice. I bet you can talk to him about anything."

Victor made a soft sound of agreement. Yakov finished checking his phone – no message from Yuri – and sighed, then walked in.

Mila waved at his reflection in one of the mirrors. He pointedly looked at her, looked at Victor, and then looked at the empty space that took up the rest of the small room. "I see the _two_ of you are working hard."

"I dunno where Yura is," said Mila, easing out of a stretch that had her back arching her leg toward her head. "Probably overslept. Should I call him?"

"I'll do it. You two finish up." He glanced over at Victor as he took his phone out, prepared to yell at Yuri for staying up too late playing video games, or whatever it had been this time. Victor smiled back at him from the floor, doing a stretch that even Lilia would have approved of – toes pointed, back straight, relaxed where he ought to be relaxed. Not as far into it as she would have wanted, but at least his form was good.

When Yuri eventually showed up, Yakov yelled at him some more before letting him skate blearily around the rink, still yawning. Victor zoomed by him, then doubled back to say something Yakov couldn't hear. Yuri's _fuck off_ was more than audible, though it only made Victor smile and head off again.

Yuri may have been skating like he was still asleep, but Mila landed her jumps left and right during jump practice, Georgi performed a run-through with new choreographic touches that made his connection to the music even more apparent and the program itself even more lovely, and Victor....

Victor kept smiling at little things. When he practiced his short program, his first run-through was the best he'd had all season, in practice or at competition. Yakov couldn't pin down exactly what it was – more flow, or more lightness to the movements. Something. It was what Victor's programs had always looked like when he was completely on.

"That was perfect," Yakov said afterward, and Victor's eyebrows rose.

"...really?"

"If you keep skating like that, you won't have any use for me."

Victor faked wide eyes. "But Yakov! I need you – otherwise, who will help me fill out ISU forms? Who will carry my tissue box for me at competitions? Who will make sure I wake up on time to get to practices?"

"All children have to grow up some day."

Victor wilted at the boards. "I'm never skating so well again." But he was smiling, just a little, and he took his water bottle when Yakov offered it.

He did another run-through after a brief break, very nearly as charming as the first, save for an awkward landing on one jump, a break in the flow of the program – but only for a moment. He was smiling through each element, looking for all the world like he'd decided to up and dance on the ice for the pure joy of it.

Watching him skate like that put something warm and light in Yakov's chest. It came back that evening, after Victor bugged him to come over again; when they had eaten, Victor pushed him onto the couch and then used him as a pillow. Yakov watched him scroll through photos from other skaters, news sites, this and that, until he turned over and buried his head into Yakov's shirt. The tiny sigh he made when Yakov started to stroke his hair made Yakov himself relax a little further into the cushions. It wasn't bad at all, having Victor lay all over him whenever they spent time together.

If only it could last; a few days later, Victor had an off day, his expressions forced and his jumps not with him. He stared into the ice too much, and watched Yuri too long when he landed a series of jumps with his arms raised above his head, seemingly effortless.

Yakov waited for a text from him, afterward, as he made dinner, then as he did some cleaning. His phone never chimed. After he'd picked it up and put it down at least fifteen times in a couple of hours, he gave in and texted Victor first this time.

It took Victor an irritatingly long time to respond, though it was only an hour and a half. Yakov was already thinking of going to bed, but he waited up for Victor and his dog. The three of them made for a crowded bed. But it was also a warm one, and after a few minutes of fidgeting, Victor settled against him and went right to sleep.

Yakov practically had to drag Victor from bed in the morning, and practice wasn't any better for him than the day before. It was frustrating to see. If only he could just put Victor back into the state of mind he needed to be in. If only sleeping with Victor was all he needed to light up the way he had day after day when he was younger. If only Victor would smile properly, instead of the fake one he wore while watching Yuri jump, jump, jump.

Victor even fell out of a spin near the end of practice – he overbalanced, and then over-corrected so much that he fell right on his backside. Mila cracked up at the mournful way he gazed at the ceiling. After a few moments, he got up and entered the spin again; it wasn't perfect, but it was okay, and Yakov could see the concentration on his face.

Watching him made Yakov think: that wasn't the expression of someone who was finished with skating yet. Victor was still fixing his mistakes, refining his programs – that had to be coming from somewhere in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this was a late update. Sorry about that to anyone reading :x I went to Skate Canada and work happened and I got distracted by other things &c. My outline has also been reshuffled - I split this chapter because it was getting long and it worked better thematically that way, so there will now be eight chapters.


	7. Chapter 7

Victor decided one day to help Mila out with her programs. The changes he suggested for her choreography seemed small, from what Yakov saw while he was working with Yuri and then Georgi, but would add drama and flair.

Georgi stepped off for a moment to adjust how his skates were laced, and while waiting for him, Yakov watched Mila and Victor working as they dodged around the other skaters. Victor had been following her around with her phone playing tinny music earlier, playing small sections of her songs over and over and over, but now he was demonstrating for her, working through the movements with her without the music. Steps, playful arm movements that suited Mila's style, more steps, and then a spin.

Mila turned out of it before she pulled her leg up over her back and head like she was meant to, and faced Victor with her hands on her hips. "Is that what you call a layback?" she called out, deepening her voice and putting on an exaggerated frown. Ah. Imitating himself. "You have to _lay_ your spine _back_ , Vitya – yes! That's almost a measurable angle!"

Victor was grinning at her when he straightened up out of the lazy spin. Mila burst into her own grin in return. She stretched, turned, happened to glance Yakov's way – then gasped so loudly that Yakov could hear it from halfway across the rink.

And then she shrieked, "Coach is _smiling_!"

If he had been (he hadn't felt one), he certainly wasn't after that outburst.

"You were smiling," Victor insisted later, emphasizing his point by poking his spoon at Yakov over their dinner. "You were!"

"I don't see why she was so fussed about it," Yakov grumbled. "I smile sometimes. I'm not inhuman."

"Not at practice! I can barely remember the last time you smiled so widely at practice that wasn't – maybe when Yura was still a little kid. Even when you told me I'd skated perfectly the other day, you just lost your frown. What made you so happy, anyway? Mila's impression wasn't _that_ good."

Yakov shrugged. "I like seeing my students be friends with each other and helping each other," he said.

"Oh." Victor dropped his spoon back into his soup and propped his head up on one hand. "Friends with each other, huh."

If Yakov hadn't already picked up that Victor was lacking in 'friends', despite how well he always seemed to get along with his rink mates, the way he stared through the table for a long few seconds would have cemented the impression.

Maybe they weren't friends, however Victor defined the word. Victor and Georgi had seemed closer when they were younger, before Victor had won everything in his last year of Juniors and then burst onto the Seniors scene to claim a gold medal at the Olympics. He and Mila got along well, and there wasn't the problem of rivalry there, but Yakov had no idea if they ever spent time together outside of the rink. Yuri was snarly toward him, but then, was there anyone Yuri didn't get snarly with? At least he sometimes listened to Victor, a little, and Victor sometimes found an excuse to do something nice for him.

"You're leaving again," Victor said, still staring far away.

"NHK is a few days off," Yakov said with a nod. His turn to deal with the time difference. "Don't sprain anything trying to do a layback while I'm gone."

Victor laughed and turned his eyes back to him. "I don't really care about doing one again. Mila was the one who wanted someone to stretch with. So don't worry! Although, I was watching this other old video – TubeTube recommends them to me a lot now for some reason – and there was this interesting sit spin in it.…"

Yakov groaned. "Vitya. Not. In the middle. Of the season. No. You have a perfectly good sit spin."

"Maybe I'll see if Chris can teach it to me, then," Victor said with a sniff, but then he was shifting his chair closer to Yakov's. "I'll make sure Yura doesn't destroy his phone, either. Or the rink."

"Or the other coaches."

"I can't watch him _all_ the time."

"Or the ice. He needs to stop stabbing his toe picks in every time he gets upset. It's a bad habit."

"I'll put it on the list of things to tease him about," Victor said. "Mila and I will get him over it."

...that might actually work. Hm. "Don't make him too upset."

A few days later, on the flight to Japan, Yakov watched some new low-budget skating movie on the entertainment system. Internally, he grumbled at how both the skating and the romance (between two pairs partners, why did they always choose pairs for these things) were poorly written, and the costumes were thirty years out of style. At least it took up some of the time.

He had just gotten them checked into the hotel and collapsed onto his bed when his phone dinged. _I heard you're in Japan!_ Victor had sent. It was followed up by a picture taken from his bike, showing a canal, Makkachin, and a hint of the morning sky. It looked like a pleasant path for morning exercise. _We're working hard over here!_

Yakov texted him back, then took Victor's call when the phone lit up. Mostly he ended up complaining about the movie when Victor prodded him for details about it. "I'll find something better for us to watch when you get back," Victor promised, panting for breath. It was safe to bike and talk on the phone at the same time, wasn't it? As long as it was hands-free? "There was, ah, some historical film that came out recently? Like, set in the sixties. You can tell me if it's accurate. I think I heard it was good."

He took a moment to despair that a film set in his lifetime could be described as 'historical'. The sixties weren't even that long before Victor had been born, had they? Only a couple of decades. Barely.

Victor bid him good-night, and Yakov imagined him riding off into the sunrise, ready for another day of practice. The image followed him to sleep but not into his dreams, and he woke up the next morning thinking only of Mila and Georgi.

His students looked good in practice. On the first day of competition, Mila landed a triple axel that looked almost lazy in its execution, then continued down the ice as though she'd done the easiest thing in the world while the audience cheered her on. She incorporated the new movements Victor had suggested, giving the crowd a big smile all the while.

A season's best for her, of course. It was two points higher than Sara Crispino's. Crispino had no triple axel, but she had the harder combinations and a fair advantage in artistry. Mila had time to catch up to her, though, and she was working on it.

Maybe Victor should choreograph for her next season, Yakov thought, as he patted her shoulder while she clapped for herself. Something new for her, from someone she was already comfortable with. Something new for him, with a rink mate who wouldn't care if the program or his ability to teach it wasn't perfect from the start. Victor knew exactly how to play to an audience, and what the judges liked, which would help her artistry scores.

Georgi was shakier when he skated. The short program left him in sixth place, and he was obviously disappointed with himself afterward. Mila tried to encourage him the next morning, and while Yakov was never short on criticism, he let his thoughts on Georgi's potential to medal be known, too. The free counted for more, and Georgi always thrived with high expectations, rather than being relegated to the one who was always second-best after Victor.

It worked; he rallied in the free program with an emotional display that went together with clean jumps. He was sniffling when he came off the ice; Yakov handed him a tissue and handed him some of his flowers.

Not everyone did as well. Yakov didn't _relish_ in seeing the falls and stumbles of the competitors who followed him, but it was satisfying to see the scores keep coming up and Georgi remaining near the top.

In the end, it was silver for Mila, bronze for Georgi. GPF places for both of them. Yakov felt extremely pleased with them and with himself. He gave some statements to a journalist – how he was proud of Mila's development this season, how he'd told Georgi not to give up and look how well he'd fought back, so on and so on. There were only so many things to say about these situations.

 _Are you sure I can't be a commentator?_ Victor texted him. _They weren't nice enough to Zhora and they got too excited about Mila. You would have thought she'd finished the rest of her triples after the axel._

So a couple of the jumps had been a bit short. Yakov rolled his eyes and replied, _You're not changing my mind. Did you even watch the other competitors?_ Georgi's program had undoubtedly been the skate of the night in his mind, but the Japanese man who had unexpectedly placed above him might be one to watch if he could keep skating like that and keep landing his quads. One of Celestino's, and it showed in his choreography. Best triple axel Yakov had ever seen after Victor's.

 _I didn't have time_ , wrote Victor, and then, _Can I call you?_

There wasn't much to talk about. He spoke a little about the competition, then let Victor fill the silence with chatter until his voice was no longer so quiet and the plaintive notes in it were gone.

Watching Mila and Georgi buzz around the shops in the airport a few days later, Yakov found himself unable to sit still and joined them in browsing. "Cute!" Mila kept exclaiming, showing Georgi a new sweet or hair decoration she was considering buying for her friends. There was a lot that could be described as _cute_ , since Japan apparently adored the idea, from the tiny beckoning cats to the plump wooden dolls to the row of notebooks splashed with colorful characters.

One of those notebooks was covered in tiny poodles. Victor needed a new skating notebook; his last one was almost used up. Yakov made sure he bought it before Georgi and Mila were finished poking through the store.

Back home in Russia, Victor went, "Oh!" when he saw it where Yakov had put it on his table. "Makkachin, look." He picked it up and knelt down to let her sniff at it, then reached out to hug her. Yakov watched as he snuggled his face into her fur, then bounced to his feet. "Let's go put this in our skating bag so we don't forget!"

When he returned, he pushed his face into Yakov's neck and refused to budge for a long time, even to let Yakov start eating his dinner. Yakov almost had to lever him off.

At the rink the next day, his four students posed for a photo together, holding up their various Grand Prix medals. _Team Feltsman! See everyone in Sochi!_ Georgi captioned it. He had hardly stopped smiling since the medal ceremony a few days ago.

He was very unlikely to beat Victor. But someone had to get second place, and it didn't have to be Giacometti.

~!~

Yakov didn't think much of it when Georgi called to let him know he wasn't feeling well and would be skipping practice. Colds and headaches and whatnot happened, and they could adjust to one unexpected day off.

He was much less pleased when Georgi phoned him again a few hours later in the middle of practice, sniffling, and said that the doctor had told him he probably had the flu. " _What?_ " Yakov yelled, and then he ground his teeth together. Out on the ice, nobody even looked his way, too used to the shouting to pay attention. "Are they sure?"

"They said the tests aren't perfect, but... they came back positive. And I really don't feel well."

Yakov swore and put his head on his hand. There was only about a week until the final started; Georgi would need time to recover, and even if he got over it as fast as possible and wanted to jump right back into skating, his condition wouldn't be the best. And that was assuming he was recovered quickly. And there were dangers to letting athlete resume hard practice and training right away after that kind of illness, there were often lingering symptoms that could hold him back....

Georgi sniffled again.

"What was their recommendation," Yakov said flatly.

He had to wait through a coughing fit before Georgi said, "That I can't compete like this."

Yakov swore again. Yuri zoomed past him, setting up a combination jump. Victor watched him jump it, then glanced over at Yakov, probably curious as to why he was taking so long before their training time, then went calling after Yuri.

"If you're that sick," Yakov said, "they're probably right."

"I know," Georgi said. He sounded miserable.

He rubbed at his face and ignored how Victor was now arguing with Yuri about his jump technique. "Well, at least one of my students is sensible. I." He sighed. "I'll let them know you're withdrawing. Do they know if you might be ready to skate for Nationals?"

"I don't know. I forgot to ask. Maybe it depends on how fast I get better."

"Make sure you – you know the drill. Take care of yourself!"

"Yeah, they gave me medicine." He coughed again. "I'll rest now so I can skate later."

"There you go." He bit back any more groaning about the situation before he wished Georgi a good recovery and hung up.

Yuri was screeching at Victor, who was mostly responding with a half-smile and an amused look in his eyes. When he looked over at Yakov and saw that he was done with his call, he waved at Yuri and skated over, ending the one-sided argument there. "Who were you calling? You never answer your phone when we're on the ice."

"Zhora's sick," said Yakov. He paused long enough to set himself a reminder to officially withdraw Georgi later. What awful luck. At least Euros and Worlds would be waiting, if not Nationals.

Damn. He'd been so looking forward to having them all there. And it had to be Georgi, who struggled the most to stand apart.

That was all he said before he started directing Victor, but Georgi must have told them what was going on himself, because they were talking about it at the start of their next ice session. "Poor guy," Mila sighed. "And right in the middle of the season, too. I hope he didn't pass it on to the rest of us."

"He better not have," Yuri growled, tapping away at his phone. "Flu _sucks_ . My grandpa caught it a few years ago and he had to go to the hospital and then _I_ got sick and I couldn't skate for almost a month."

"I don't remember this," said Victor.

"It was the year before I came here." He gave his screen a particularly vicious tap and shoved it in his pocket, before reaching for the gate as the Zamboni finally drove off. He was the first one out there, followed closely by Victor and Mila, the three of them warming up as the ice finished re-freezing.

Victor had already asked him that morning if he would come over for dinner, so Yakov had known he would see him waiting when he was ready to leave for the day. Yakov hadn't expected Yuri to be slouching next to him, though. "Okay," Victor said. "Time to go!"

Yuri glanced up at Yakov, then looked at Victor in clear disbelief. "The old man's coming, too?"

"Is that any way to talk about your coach?" But Yuri just scowled and pulled his obnoxious hoodie further over his head in response to the reprimand.

"I wanted to talk with Yakov about my programs," Victor said. "Yura wants to use my kitchen to make pirozhki. Stop growling at him, you're the one who invited yourself over."

Yuri proceeded to completely ignore Yakov, which was fine. Yakov drifted behind them as they walked to Victor's place, then stayed in the living room as Yuri made a beeline for the kitchen. Victor disappeared for a few minutes to take Makkachin out, then returned and sat next to him, though a more respectable distance away than he usually went for these days.

"He's a terror in the kitchen," he said, smiling. "Last time I tried to help him, he spent more time scolding me for doing everything wrong than letting me do anything."

"He couldn't do it elsewhere?"

"My kitchen is better than his host family's," Victor said with a shrug. "Apparently. You should hear him talk about it! He has so many opinions on the right cooking equipment already. Maybe he'll become a chef when he's done with skating."

There was a loud clang as Yuri shoved the oven shut. Both of them jumped at the noise; Yuri didn't, instead adjusting his headphones and slouching against the counter to fiddle with his phone. He ignored the dirty dishes scattered everywhere but the sink, the same way he ignored his skate guards, practice clothes, and water bottles cluttering up the locker room.

Victor shook his head, a fond look on his face, and reached for his laptop. He opened a recent video of himself skating. Might as well actually talk about his programs, Yakov supposed.

By the time the food was done, Victor had already decided that he wanted to tweak the choreography a little more. There was one move he never quite seemed to hit on the right beat of the music, and another that looked fine to Yakov but that Victor thought was displeasing, for whatever reason. "If you want to move the combo, then move it somewhere," Yakov said. "You're not skipping it, Vitya."

"I know," Victor whined, cheek pressed into his hand. He seemed bored, until his eyes flickered up and he suddenly straightened.

Yuri practically dropped a plate of pirozhki in front of them and slumped on the armchair with another in his hand. "There's a bag of them on the counter," he said. "Those are for Zhora. I dunno where he lives, one of you figure it out."

"Thank you," Victor said, sing-song, smiling as he broke open one of the pastries. It was fresh from the oven, still steaming.

They were delicious. Whatever recipe Nikolai had taught to his grandson was a very good one.

Yuri stuck around for another half hour, alternating between playing with his phone and talking with Victor. When he finally left, another bag full of pirozhki clutched in his hands, Victor went from waving him good-bye to throwing his arms around Yakov as soon as the door had closed.

His mouth still tasted like the pirozhki. Yakov kissed him until it didn't taste of anything in particular, until Victor went from tugging at him to melting against him. They didn't talk of skating any more that night.

Yakov found time, the next day, to bring Yuri's pirozhki to Georgi, having left his busy students to one of his other coaches. (He would have made one of them do it, but Yuri obviously wouldn't, Mila claimed she had homework, and Victor would have been plain awkward. And he hadn't thought to try Georgi's girlfriend until after the ice dancers had left, whichever one she was.)

Georgi answered the door wrapped up in a blanket, looking pale and ill, but he managed a smile when Yakov handed over the gift. "Do you want tea?" he asked, his tone hopeful, so Yakov made tea for both of them. He watched Georgi shiver on his couch, picking apart one of the pirozhki and washing it down with plenty of tea. There wasn't a lot of conversation to be had.

Yakov tried not to think about it too much, but Georgi was getting up there in years, too. Relatively speaking. For a figure skater. He might stay until the next Olympics, but this could have been his last time qualifying to the Grand Prix Final. Yakov hoped not.

Seeing Georgi so miserable reminded him not a little of Victor on that one night, curled up in towels in his living room. Georgi had never really gotten out from under Victor's shadow – not in the eyes of the judges, and not in his own mind. Was he happy like that, forever being the 'artistic one' because he could never reach Victor technically, despite Yakov's coaching and his own best efforts? Or was he secretly sad, too, in his own way?

Yakov couldn't stand the thought. He'd always wanted to see Georgi truly come into his own. He'd accepted the dramatic make-up, the odd costumes, the experimental choreography – he had put his foot down over one or two music choices, on the basis that the judges would never accept them (but mostly because he couldn't stand to listen to them all season). It wasn't Georgi's fault he couldn't pull off every kind of quad, that he couldn't repeat loop jumps endlessly, that he couldn't make up the distance with PCS because Victor had high scores there, too.

He cleared his throat. Georgi looked up from his food and gave him a weak smile. "You deserved to be at the final," said Yakov. He wasn't sure himself where the reassurance was going, but it couldn't hurt. "I want you to take care of yourself before everything else, but if you're ready in time for Nationals, I don't want you to be trying to prove yourself or making up for it."

"I know," said Georgi, his smile growing confused. "I really hope I'm better by then. I'm doing everything the doctor says."

"Good."

"I mean," he continued, fiddling with his mug of tea, "it's really disappointing. But it's just bad luck. It happens to everyone. They'll still send me to Euros, at least, no matter what, right?"

"They had better. You have the best results of the season so far after Vitya." There weren't any other Russian men who had qualified to the final. Probably he would get Worlds as well.

Georgi was right; bad luck happened to everyone. Georgi's had started with being born the day after Victor, Yakov thought on occasion. But it was nice that he had some perspective.

Yakov stood to leave shortly after, though he found himself dawdling by the door, taking much longer than he needed to finish getting re-dressed for the cold. "Was there something else?" Georgi finally asked him, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders.

He thought of Victor again, and decided that he might as well ask straight-out. "Are you happy?"

Georgi blinked at him slowly, his head tilting. "Not right now...? You mean in general?" Yakov inclined his head. Georgi chewed his lip for a moment, then nodded. "I'm not – it is a little hard sometimes. When it's Vitya and then it's everyone else. But you don't act like that – when we're at the rink, we all get the same consideration. Even though we're competing against each other at practice every day, I don't feel like it's pointless or that I'm being ignored. My therapist helps when I'm jealous. I try to think about what I feel when I'm skating and what I want for myself instead of just comparing us all the time, and what _I_ can bring to the ice. Sometimes I think there must be hard parts for Vitya, too. All the pressure to be perfect. Nobody writes stupid news articles about me being on my way out when I have a couple of bad jumps at a competition."

Yakov felt his shoulders relax. "That's a good mindset to have."

"It's difficult," Georgi said again, his shoulders moving under the blanket. "I want to skate better. But I look for good things to motivate me. Like, my programs this season aren't about jealousy, they're about love and passion. I'm skating because of what's in my heart, so I have to stay focused on that. On my dear, beloved Anya and how she makes me feel and the music I hear when she's with me and—"

"Yes, I think everyone can see," Yakov said, before Georgi could go on for the next half hour about his girlfriend.

"Sometimes I write poetry for her," Georgi said, still starry-eyed. "Or if I have a bad day, about my feelings. I think I might try art after I'm done with skating. I want to do shows, but – have you ever really _looked_ at the paintings in a museum? All the layers of texture and color and symbolism? It's like skating but you have to put everything you want in it into this one moment, and—"

"It's good that you've found ways to get everything out," said Yakov, raising his voice slightly. Hobbies couldn't hurt, either, so long as they weren't distracting him. He wasn't in school any more, so he would have the time.

"So – yes, I'm fine." Georgi took a deep breath and put on a confident expression. "I'm not leaving, and I don't want to retire yet. You worry too much, coach. Mila said you even made her see the psychologist." He paused to cough into his blanket. "I'll get lots of rest and try to be healthy for Nationals. I miss skating with everyone."

Yakov was reassured about Georgi's mental state as he left and returned to his own apartment, making sure to wash his hands thoroughly as soon as he was back. Georgi was more honest than Victor, and more in tune with his emotions; if he said he was fine, he was fine. And Yakov knew he'd been dealing with jealousy for – at least a decade now, wasn't it. Since Victor had started to consistently place above him in Juniors, and started landing quads and triple axels ahead of him, and won an Olympic medal while Georgi was still fighting for his place at Junior Worlds.

He'd made his share of mistakes in coaching, but it was good to know that Georgi thought he was fair, though the fact that he'd stuck through all that for so long, rather than trying to find someone else to coach him, was proof of that, too. It was good to know that he hadn't missed something with Georgi like he had with Victor.

It was less good to check his phone the night before their flight to Sochi, and to see several messages from Victor asking him to come over. There was something off about the tone. Pleading? It was hard to tell when it was all in text.

When he arrived, Victor smiled on seeing him. He barely let Yakov take a step inside before pressing him up against the wall for a kiss, then another, and then another when Yakov tried to pull away to take his shoes off. He didn't know exactly what to do with the desperate way Victor kept tugging at his coat.

It couldn't hurt to let Victor pull him into his bedroom. To try and slow him down with long touches, to let himself be kissed again and again as Victor squirmed against him.

Tonight, Victor didn't go quiet and content when they were finished. The way he pushed himself into Yakov's space, twining all of their limbs together like he needed as much skin contact as possible, was normal. The way he kept fidgeting was not.

"What is it?" Yakov asked.

"Hm? Nothing."

"You didn't call me over like this because of _nothing_."

Victor was so close that Yakov could feel him frowning. "Fine. It's not nothing. But it's nothing worth whining to you about again. Being with you makes me feel better."

Yet he was still restless. "Do you feel better?"

Victor paused. "I feel _better_."

Yakov reigned in a sigh. "What is it?" he asked again.

Victor didn't answer him for long enough that Yakov thought that maybe he wouldn't answer at all, would just keep stroking the skin under Yakov's collarbone with his index finger and thinking of who knew what all by himself. But he did eventually say, "He wouldn't have won, even if he hadn't gotten sick."

"Probably not," Yakov said slowly.

"Chris probably isn't going to win."

"Not if you skate like you have been and he skates like he has been." It might be close, depending on how well each of them did. But he hadn't won over Victor in the last four seasons, and as far as Yakov knew, he hadn't added a new quad to his arsenal or anything like that.

"So... how am I supposed to surprise anyone when I'm always winning? When everyone else is fighting for bronze or maybe silver? I could set a new record, but even that wouldn't surprise anyone. And what would it mean? It's all just numbers. They'll change as soon as ISU changes the scoring system again." He shoved his head against Yakov's chest, reaching out to hug him. At the bottom of the bed, Makkachin snuffled when his legs shifted under her.

Yakov stroked a hand down his back, feeling the wound-up muscles. Victor and his surprises. He'd wanted to stun the world with how good he was when he was younger, he'd hidden his new haircut until he stepped on the ice when he'd had it cut short, he'd come up with new choreographic moves to go with completely different kinds of music each season. Once, he'd even thrown an extra jump into the end of a program. Afterward, he'd claimed it was a whim that came from the elation he'd felt from skating the rest so well.

"You chose to keep skating this season," Yakov pointed out. "It's not because you feel obligated to me, or your country, or the federation. It's not because you can't afford to take a break. You said you wanted to skate. Why was that?"

There was another pause. Yakov felt him take a breath, then felt the muscles near his spine relax some as he breathed out. "I like skating," he said, his voice muffled against Yakov's skin. "You know, just the skating itself. And I like making people happy with it. Even if all of it doesn't feel as real as it used to, when I hear everyone cheering... at least I know I made them excited for a few minutes. And the surprises."

"I think you care about the surprises more than your fans do."

"They're fun."

"I didn't say you couldn't enjoy them. Just that maybe you're putting more expectations on yourself than you have already."

"Hm." Victor's fingertips curled against his skin, and he somehow tucked himself even closer. "Should I stop? How would I stop? I don't want to. I've always liked surprising people."

"Yes, I _know_. I've been there for most of them. And I don't know. Wasn't that what the psychologist was for?"

"I only went once. I didn't like talking to her."

"Then someone else? Or something else, it doesn't have to be—"

"I like talking to you," Victor interrupted.

And where would that leave Victor if anything happened to Yakov? Yakov did what he could, but he couldn't be everything for Victor at all times. Yakov wasn't sure that his loneliness could be solved with one person, and he wasn't making Victor completely happy yet on his own.

"I know," Victor said after a moment. "You're not a wizard. You can't – I don't need to you do everything to make me better. I just have to figure it out. I'm capable of that."

"And you have people who can help. Besides me. There has to be something else to try."

"I tried looking it up online," Victor said, and he laughed at Yakov's groan. There was so much _nonsense_ on the internet, even more than in books. "A lot of it wasn't helpful. Like, exercise! I think I have that one covered. Or, join a club! I'm already in a very good one, thank you. Otherwise it, was, like. Talk to people more. But that's not exactly the problem, either."

"It's good that you're still working on it. But find somewhere better to get information from."

"I did," Victor said, in that put-upon way with a voice like Yakov was being unreasonable. The fact that Victor couldn't see him didn't stop Yakov from rolling his eyes. "I promise that I was using real websites and not random blogs."

"Fine. Now go to sleep. It won't do for you to skate badly at the final because you're tired."

"People would start calling for my retirement," said Victor. "Although they already do. You know, saying that I should retire so that Zhora can have his moment of glory, before Yura comes along and wins everything like I've been."

"You shouldn't read such drivel," Yakov grumped. That was just insulting to everyone. Victor chuckled, quiet, his breath warm where it touched Yakov's skin, and finally he went silent, and they went to sleep.

Morning came too quickly for Yakov's taste. When he awoke, Makkachin had her head tucked against his knee, but Victor wasn't in bed. Yakov found him in the kitchen, still undressed. He was holding a cup of coffee, leaning against the counter, staring absently toward the window. It almost looked like he was modeling for some ad, except that there was no morning light yet peaking around Victor's closed curtains.

He perked up when he saw Yakov, and he set his mug aside to wave his arms in Yakov's direction. Yakov gave in to the request and went over so Victor could hug him. Victor pulled him in close, chilled from standing around in the cool air of his apartment with no clothes. After a moment, he let go.

But not for long – he hopped up on his counter and reeled Yakov in again with greater enthusiasm than before, curling every limb around him like an octopus and tucking his head down against Yakov's shoulder. Yakov indulged him, since Victor was humming a couple of notes, clearly pleased with the odd arrangement, and he had no interest in spoiling his mood. And it wasn't uncomfortable.

Victor clung to him for a couple of minutes before eventually lifting his head. The bright light of the kitchen lit his eyes and made his hair gleam, and also revealed all his tiny imperfections. The fine lines, nothing like the ones on Yakov's face, not yet, but present and not hidden by his morning routine; he hadn't yet combed his hair properly, and it was messy and not quite in place. There was still a little sleep clinging to the corner of one eye, which Yakov reached up to scrape away, gently. Victor didn't flinch at all when Yakov's fingers approached his eyes, and Yakov wasn't sure how to name the emotion that sparked.

When Yakov had pulled the speck off, he relaxed the rest of his hand against Victor's face, and Victor leaned down to press their lips together. They were slow, shallow kisses, nice. Something good to wake up to.

Victor pushed harder into one kiss, tucked a foot around Yakov's leg, let go of one of his shoulders to stroke his arm. His interest was obvious. To be so young again – a few hours of sleep and he wanted more, more, more of whatever Yakov could give.

And a few hours of sleep had considerably lightened his mind, apparently. After this, they would have to be all business at the final, and Yakov would have his attention split four ways; Yakov could spoil him a bit for this one morning.

Victor sighed when Yakov stroked his neck, then put their foreheads together when Yakov ran his fingers down his chest and fit them into his waist. He didn't say anything, only making sweet, soft sounds as Yakov touched him, not rushing into anything.

He blinked, still somewhat slow and sleepy, when Yakov's hand dipped further, and his limbs tightened around Yakov when his fingers wrapped around him. There was a breathy moan right in Yakov's ear. Yakov put his mouth to Victor's skin and enjoyed how his breathing sped up when he was touched just right.

After a few minutes, Yakov pulled away – against Victor's whined protests – to go fetch a chair. Victor's gaze followed him, his eyebrows knit together, and he was just opening his mouth when Yakov set the chair in front of him, trying not to make too much noise on the hard floor at this time of day. Yakov set his knee on the chair, careful about the positioning, and glanced up.

Victor's eyes widened when Yakov's fingers touched his thighs and stroked the smooth skin there. He gasped before Yakov had finished bending down, before his mouth had even reached Victor's skin.

It was still a bit of a strain on his back, but at least he didn't hurt his knee. The small discomfort was more than worth it for the satisfying way Victor's legs squeezed so hard around his torso, the way he wriggled and sighed and ran his hands along Yakov's head and neck. Those hands kept moving, stroking, pulling at Yakov's hair and letting go again before Yakov could tell him off for yanking too hard.

When Victor had finished, Yakov stood up straight again and let Victor throw his arms back around him to resume his clinging. Nobody hugged quite like him, tenacious, wholeheartedly. He was very warm now. It wasn't quite as nice as waking up slowly together, but it was most of the way there.

"Good morning," Victor mumbled after a while, belated.

"Good morning," Yakov said in return, stroking Victor's hair.

"Did you want me to...?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay," said Victor, slumping to put his face into Yakov's neck.

Yakov could have stood there a few minutes more, but Makkachin finally padded into the room, going first for her water bowl and then nosing at where her food bowl should be. "Yes, I hear you," Victor laughed, turning so his forehead was resting against Yakov's shoulder. "I'll get your breakfast. And then we can go for a nice walk! Doesn't that sound lovely, darling?"

Makkachin's tongue lolled out of her mouth, her eyes big and expectant. She loved food as much as her owner did.

Victor climbed down and started fussing over her. While he was at it, Yakov stole his forgotten coffee and drank it – it was fine, and not appreciably different from what he got out of his machine, in his opinion.

With Makkachin fed, Victor disappeared to get dressed, then went for their walk. While he was out, Yakov waited for the caffeine to kick in by washing his cup and wiping down the counter. There, Victor's kitchen was reset to its usual cleanliness. It was always neater than Yakov's, and it felt odd to leave it in much disarray.

Once dressed himself, he contemplated the contents of Victor's fridge, then gave up the idea of cooking and started another cup of coffee to make up for his lack of sleep. While it brewed, he pulled out his phone.

"Let's go out for breakfast," he said, when Victor returned, holding out his phone to show him his suggestion.

Victor got a brief, surprised smile. "I'd like that," he said. "Have you been there before? I don't think I have."

Yakov had, but not for quite a while. It was the kind of place where the atmosphere was better than the food, which was merely average. Cozy, warm wood colors, lots of natural light when the sun finally decided to show itself, green plants in pots everywhere. Victor seemed to like it, judging by how he kept looking around instead of going straight for his phone.

They didn't talk about skating. Victor chattered through most of their breakfast about the books he was bringing for their flight, and the authors who had written them, and the arc of their writing quality over time, and whatnot. Yakov wasn't very interested – Victor seemed to read mostly romances, with a smattering of fantasy, and Yakov preferred more realistic books – but it pleasing to see Victor talking so animatedly after how he'd been last night. Maybe he could read books all day when he was retired, if nothing else.

When they were walking back afterward, Victor quieted and his gaze went somewhere far away. Yakov hoped he wasn't falling back into his depressed mood again already. Eventually, Victor noticed the glances Yakov kept sending him and asked, "What is it?"

"I'm wondering what has you thinking so hard."

"Hm... I was trying to remember the last time I went on a date." When Yakov didn't reply (that... had been an awful lot like a date, hadn't it), he said, "There was this guy who asked me out at Sochi, but he gave me a weird feeling, so I turned him down. And of course people have all kinds of other invitations for me, but a date... I guess it depends on what counts as one...."

Yakov's chest hurt for a moment; he could remember a younger Victor swooning over a few crushes, crashing head-over-heels into a couple of youthful relationships. While never as obnoxious about it as Georgi, he'd clearly been ready for the great romance of his life promised to him by fiction, even if school and skating hadn't given him much time for it in his younger years.

And now, like Georgi, he had that time. Time that he was spending with Yakov. Yakov stuffed his hands into his pockets and said, "It counts as one if you feel like it counts as one. Don't overthink it."

Victor's lip turned up, and he nudged into Yakov's side. "Okay."

He was a model student in practice. Toes pointed, knees bent, fingers extended, lovely run-throughs of each of his programs. Even Yuri kept peeking at him from behind his hair, subtle looks. Yakov thought he was measuring himself up against that standard.

Yakov let himself have a few moments to admire Victor's movements, a bubble of pride swelling in him as Victor skated in front of the windows, every turn of his blades smooth. In the light, all of his imperfections were once again hidden away. If he didn't know better, he could have believed that the man skating was the Victor who showed up on screen, in competitions, written into articles – a Victor who rarely wavered or made mistakes, who always smiled and acted nicely to everyone, who hit the right balance of proud and humble and polite, who knew the right thing to say every time.

Of course, the real Victor had never been so flawless. Yakov had seen him fall a million times, had seen him trying and sometimes failing to tamp down frustration when he couldn't do what Yakov or Lilia asked of him, had seen him stumble over his English when he'd won his first Olympic medal, had seen him clutching at injuries and grumbling over stupid officials. Had seen the things that lay under that smile.

Yakov pulled his eyes away. Victor could finish preparing himself; it was Yuri's turn for his attention. He called him over, and it was refreshing to watch Yuri work with more focus than usual. Hopefully they could make good use of their last real practice before the competition, and hopefully that would bode well for his performance over the next few days.

Mila was the last one off the ice, getting in a final jump while the Zamboni driver gave her an annoyed look, and then they were finished for the day, as prepared as they were going to get.

The trip to Sochi was smooth, and Mila turned bright and excited when they had landed. "Coach, we're going to be skating in the same place as at the Olympics, right? Yura, you'll get to skate there this time instead of being a spectator!" She grabbed Yuri's shoulder and shook him, ignoring the way he growled as she continued enthusing and reminiscing.

It had been an exciting event, and an exhausting one. Yuri had indeed come along to cheer on his teammates and see what the atmosphere at the Games was like, and a few free tickets might have made their way into Nikolai's hands so he could join him. The crowd had practically screamed the roof off the arena for both Mila and Victor, as well as the other Russians.

Mila had ended up skipping the remainder of the season. Victor had showed up back at practice a few days later to train for Worlds. Yakov had assumed he was using it as a way to escape the press beating down his door to talk about his gold medal, and had used him as an example of dedication and hard work when lecturing Yuri. Perhaps it hadn't been those qualities that had driven Victor right back to the rink. No use wondering about that now, though.

Victor was ignoring the fight going on between his rink mates in favor of reading something on his phone, the light from the screen making his face pale and colorless. Yakov put a hand on his shoulder to alert him to the waiting taxi. He jumped into Mila's teasing without missing a beat as he joined them in the taxi, and that left Yakov to take another with a couple of the other members of his team.

It was a much quieter ride than the other taxi would have been. Too quiet, maybe. Yakov drifted on the way to the hotel, half-dreaming that Victor's hand was tucked into the crook of his elbow like it had been so many times in the past.


End file.
